kiss me good

by amber nicole brooks

                                                 Sarasota, FL

    I tried to kiss her on the corner of North Tamiami and First Street.  She jutted her shoulder up and hit me right in the jaw, hard.  I thought I deserved it—the kiss, not the shoulder.  I had memorized the circumference of her waist: just over four lengths of my hand.  I knew the feel of her hipbones against my palm; more importantly, I had laid my hand on her in such a way as to make me feel sinful and gentlemanly at the same time.  But somehow, I was always neglected a kiss.  A lady would have kissed me.  But she shot her shoulder up and socked me so hard in the jaw my teeth jammed together, making a sick squeaking sound.  It was a deliberate hit, but she made it seem to onlookers like a slight nudge, an unfortunate passing.  I was down, stunned for a few minutes.  I didn’t know it yet, but I chipped a tooth.

    “What’s your problem?” I asked, getting up off of the ground.

    “Shut up, Elroy,” she said.

    “You’re always asking me for money,” I said, though I didn’t know why.  I should have said something about the fact that she had just knocked me to the ground, but Emerson and I didn’t talk about things like that.

    “Well, you don’t ever have any.”

    “I bought you that Krystal burger.”

    “A Krystal isn’t even worth a smile.  And that was yesterday.  Today is today.”

    I thought about this, and decided it was a convenient way of thinking.  Today is today.

    “What are you doing today?” I asked. 

    “Listen, we have to get out to Lido Key tonight,” she said.

    “Why?”

    “So I can see George.  Get something.  Do something.  Everything’s dead around here.  Everyone is so damn old.  These people: shopping, eating, wearing white pants.  It’s depressing.” 

    That evening at dusk we walked the long bridge out to St. Armand’s Key, then through St. Armand’s circle to Lido Key.  On Lido Key the new mixed with the old—two of the newest buildings were a yellow tower of multimillion dollar residences and the Ritz Carlton Beach Club.  We couldn’t even go and have a drink in there, even if we did have the right shoes, because it was only for residents and hotel guests, and gated, of course.  There were many gates, but not at the older places.  George worked at one of these, and had for fifteen years.  He worked the office, had all the keys, kept things going smoothly, he said.

    I liked being out on the Key, because despite the gates, people weren’t as rude as in downtown.  Earlier that day, after we got sent away from the emergency room because my tooth was only chipped (I insisted it was loose, but they said my injury was purely cosmetic), we were told to leave Starbucks, which is not very Zen and I thought they were cool like that. 

    “But I’m a customer,” Emerson had yelled so everyone could hear her.  She pulled a crushed Starbucks coffee cup from her oversized purse and waved it above her head as evidence.  The manager escorted us out.

    “You drank that two days ago.  Today is today,” I had said as we stood on the corner.

    “It was only plain coffee anyway.  You’re so cheap.  No latte, no mocha.  Cheap bastard,” she had said as she threw the cup at me.

    So we made our way down the key, tasting the salt in the air, gritty sand slipping between my feet and my sandals.  Finally we came to where George worked, in the front office of this place, this u-shaped motel opening up to the beach like a big mouth, a pool in the middle for the tongue.  The office was one of the first rooms at the back of the throat, near the parking lot.  It was locked but Emerson knocked and George opened up.

    “I was just about to leave, good thing you made it before then,” he said.

    “Oh, I get on fine without your help,” Emerson said.

    “Well, what were you going to do all the way down here with nowhere to go?”  George handed her the key to the lounge upstairs on the fourth floor—a room with a big screen TV and three pool tables.  It closed at 9 pm, and George had just locked it up.  He also handed Emerson a paper bag.  “Bottle of Old Crow I took from some kids in the hot tub yesterday.  Just a few sips gone.”

    You had to put the key in the elevator, and the elevator opened up right into the lounge, and Emerson and I went up there, turned on the television.  A local news show was on.  Weather, tides, traffic.  We swallowed back the Old Crow, quickly as we could, between shots of pool.  Emerson had racked the balls for nine ball, which meant she wanted to get into it.  Eight ball was simple enough for us to get along to.  But we couldn’t ever agree whether to play with push outs in a game of nine ball, and we never decided before-hand, and then we would decide we got one per game, and then sometimes we would allow ourselves more, and Emerson would inevitably rail into her monologue against this Texas Express way of playing, as she called it.  So, we argued. 

    It began to thunder and wail outside, lightning cracking the sky open over the ocean, which we could see out the broad glass windows facing out the mouth of the building.  The lights dimmed and lit up again and Emerson shivered violently.

    “Damn creepy,” she said, hugging the bottle to her chest.  She sat the Old Crow on a wooden stool and went back to lining up her next shot.  We heard the old motor of the elevator creaking, and we both paused, listening.  I was afraid it was some kids trying to get in after hours—I hated talking to kids.  Emerson came and stood close to me.

    The elevator door opened, and there was no one there, no person at least.  Sitting there, propped up so nicely you might think a ghost was astride it, was a silver BMX bike.  I ran and pulled it out before the elevator doors shut.

    “What is that?”  Emerson said.

    “It’s a trick bike.”

    “I know that.  But why doesn’t it have a person?  Someone’s messing with us.”

    “Who cares.  It’s awesome,” I said. The lounge was a huge room, with plenty of floor space to weave around the three pool tables.  I began riding around, getting a feel for the bike on the thin carpet.

    “What about our game?”

    “Whatever, you can have that nine ball,” I said, popping a wheelie.  I had drunk a bit of that Old Crow and felt pretty fearless.  Emerson went and sat on her stool, drinking more, watching me ride around the room, the look of a skeptic on her face.  I was trying to show off.  I hit the front brake, trying to do an endo—the back wheel lifted like it was supposed to and I coasted on the front wheel for a couple of feet, but then I leaned too far forward and went headfirst into the leg of one of the tables.  Something on that corner smashed and sliced me good because I felt a searing pain on the corner of my head and then liquid warmth running over my face.

    Emerson must have run over fast because she was there in no time, looking down at me.  She shrieked and ran off, then back again to press paper towels on my head.

    “Oh, Elroy,” she said. 

    She was so beautiful.  I could have stayed on my back looking up at her forever.  I kept waiting for her to call me an idiot, a klutz, a dummy, but she didn’t.

    “Do you think they’ll let us stay this time?” I asked. 

    “Where?”

    “The emergency room.” 

    “Yes, I think they will.”  She smiled and pressed more towels on my head. 

   

    My head was hot, and blood dripped into my left eye.  She leaned over and kissed me, her warm lips pressing hard into mine, her hair falling around my face, her fingers resting against my cheek.

Amber Nicole Brooks lives and writes in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in several publications, including Staccato Magazine and The Eudora Welty Newsletter. She received third prize in the 2007 Playboy College Fiction Contest for her story "Love is Like a Rock."