The Kiss: An Anthology About Love and Other Close Encounters(110)
“Here’s your drink,” said the waitress.
I looked up into her eyes while her perfume drew me toward her, “Thanks.” I mumbled, and start to pay for the drink but she stopped me.
“The lady at the table by the door paid for it,” my young infatuation told me as she pointed to a woman dressed in a body length overcoat and wearing a large brim hat. Even in the dimly lit room, she wore dark sunglasses, more cloak and dagger. I was intrigued.
The woman raised her glass to me.
I raised my drink to her, thanking her, “Who is she,” I asked the waitress.
“I don’t know, never seen her here before.” Then she trotted off, with my eyes watching her every step. That’s when the mystery woman made her move by stepping into my line of sight. All I saw was her black overcoat. I followed the line of buttons up the coat to her face, which sat recessed in the shadows of her large brim hat.
“May I sit down?” she asked with an unusual, heavy accent. Her voice was feminine but deep as if suffering from a cold.
“Sure, I mean, please do.”
I watched her slide gracefully onto the wicker chair across from me. The candle did little to cast a glow onto her face. Her red lips shimmered in the light but the rest of her face remained cloaked in the shadows of the hat.
I sipped on my Scotch with my eyes fixed on her. “So, what brings you here tonight?” I asked.
She didn’t answer right away but sat motionless in the candlelight. “You,” she finally said in almost a whisper.
“Me,” I questioned, “Why, I don’t even know you.”
“You have the package,” she said.
BT’s instructions came rushing back to me. No talking. No drinking. I sat the glass down with hardly two sips out of it. She might be my contact but how would I know. Something inside my chest told me she wasn’t.
“The package,” I questioned trying to de-rail her suspicions.
“You’re known as, ‘BT,’ aren’t you,” she said, sliding the sunglasses off her thin nose, revealing deep brown eyes. You know the kind, the kind that melts your soul with a passing glance.
“No, I’m sorry…I…I’m not him. My Name is…Will….Willard Humphrey. I work with the offshore men …HR issues.” I tried making things up but no matter what I said it sounded like a lie. Not even I believed it.
She stood, “Quit with the fun and games. Give me the package,” she demanded while patting her side coat pocket. “I’m sure you know what I have in here. Don’t make me use it.”
I wasn’t sure of anything except that I was in deep shit. What had BT gotten me into? As for her pocket, it could be a gun or maybe a bluff. I was willing to take a chance. Besides, we were in Moe’s; too many people for her to kill me here. “Listen, Dark and Mysterious, I have no idea what you’re talking about…but hey, I’m willing to forget it. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll —”
“Enough of this,” she snapped, then stepped next to me reaching for my shirt pocket.
I reached for her wrist, but my reach was intercepted by the waitress who sat down on my lap, wrapped her arms around me, pressing her body against mine. She winked before kissing me deep and long. I was surprised to say the least. Our lips parted and she leaned back and said dramatically, “Darling I knew I would find you here,” then she kissed me again. Believe me, I wasn’t complaining. I could do this all night. It crossed my mind several times.
The dame with the hat stepped back and pulled the .38 snub nose from her pocket, “The packet, give me the packet,” she demanded.
Without hesitating, my new found friend kicked the pistol from the dame’s hand and punched her in the nose. The dame fell back into the makeshift bar, spilling peanuts and knocking the plank off the crates. Drinks tumbled to the dirty floor, and the bartender did not look happy. The dame was knocked out cold. Then the blonde Rambo turned to me, and kissed me again.
I said to her, “I kinda understand that you’re my contact and you kissed me to ward off the dame but what was that last kiss for?”
“Me,” she said and kissed me again.
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Cleve Sylcox is the author of six books with many more on the way. To read his short stories and poems check out his blog,
http://csylcox.wordpress.com
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The Call
Corrie Fischer
(Based on a True Story)
I suppose I should start from the beginning. How does one define such a point? Does it truly start at conception or perhaps at birth? Of course the question here is not where life began. No, it is something far more. Where did the pain arise? For that, we must go back to my first memory.
It was a cold November morning and I was four years old. I do not remember playing in the gym’s daycare. One may hypothesize they did not have memorable toys there. It was most likely filled with donated objects that scattered across a plain, ordinary carpet. The scene must not have been within my mental capacity to hold dear.
Debra arrived there to get me. My mother, Nancy, was standing behind her, yet she was a world away. I cannot picture their faces or the words they spoke to me. The thoughts simply vanished from my young mind. All I have of the missing pieces is their own, distorted accounts. After all, memories are a tricky, fragile thing. This is part of what makes eye witness statements so unreliable. One person may see a red ball cap while another swears it was a tan cowboy hat on the suspect. The causes of such distorted recollections have baffled scientists for years. They have theories of course, but that is what they remain. They are hollow speculations to provide answers to one of humanity’s greatest phenomenon. Of course, I am getting off topic.