*French Kiss*

Back then, I hadn’t mastered the art of finding a flaw, hadn’t even thought of it yet, of protecting myself from little crushes with a prayer. Show me, God. Reveal something undesirable about this guy—halitosis, a lousy work ethic, a collection of naked Skipper dolls—that’ll make this constant thought of what if go away.

            I don’t remember the year. It’s not important. I can tell you where he worked though. At the change bank under the Arc de Triomphe, in the shade of it.

            The guy at the window next to him was tall, very. His smile was wonderful, so friendly, but he wasn’t beautiful. Not like Eric. Eric’s skin reminded me of crème brulee—the custard underneath, not the crispy, bubbled brown top. His eyes? They were polar ice water blue. How do you say that in French? Je ne sais pas. His gaze was intense. I wanted to ask if his eyes were tired because I never saw him blink. Ever. His lips looked like Cabernet, as if he’d recently taken a sip sans a glass. Just put his mouth in a vat of it. Juicy. What would that taste like? I felt heat in my cheeks at the possibility.

            I thought about him each day, in every country. Switzerland. Germany. Italy. Greece. The last time I saw him he’d pressed a bank business card into my palm.

            “Call me. The minute, no, the second, you return to France. Oui?”

            I tucked a wisp of hair behind my ears and smiled. “Oui.”

~~~~~~~

My tummy simmered when I called him from the payphone at Charles de Gaulle two months later.

            “Bonjour, Eric. C’est moi. Je suis ici, a  Paris.”

            “That is so great,” he said. His voice was soft, a whisper. “Will you have dinner with me? Ce soir?”

            My heart revved. “Yes. Oui.”

            I barely remember the meal except for the garlicky, buttery, snails and the wine, le tres bon vin. He wanted to order Ile Flottante—that floating island dessert—but I put my hand over my mouth.

            “I can’t eat another bite,” I said, “but I’ll have more wine, s’il vous plait.”

            He worked at the label, to peel it off for me.

            “It is from Alsace, my favorite wine region,” he said. “If you like, we can go to Reims and taste its champagne. I have an uncle there who would—”

            I sighed and shook my head. “I can’t, Eric. I have to go home, to America.”

            He buried his face in his hands, pretended to sob. “I will die. You will take my heart with you when you go.”

            I squeezed my chair seat with both hands and leaned across the table. “Silly boy.”

            He made his eyes big, pushed his bottom lip out. “It is true. Surely I will perish when you depart.”

            I glanced at my watch. “We should go. I have to catch an early hovercraft back to England tomorrow.”

~~~~~~~

We held hands inside his olive green Renault, over the gear shift. The moonlight came through the windshield, turned his creamy skin luminous. He made little brushstrokes on each of my fingernails, pressed my knuckles to his mouth. I wanted his lips on mine, not on my hands. I had to know, had to, if this was as good as that. If he, French boy, could be more wonderful than him, American guy. What if my man back home (Je sais. Je suis terrible!) wasn’t the one after all?

            It all depends on the kiss, you know. If you can’t kiss, if you’re not really good at it, what can you do? If you can’t melt chocolate with the promise of your lips, make its velvety sweetness drip and ooze so the other person wants to slurp up every drop, can you really love? Is it possible you can live well? I don’t think so. Everything rides on mouth-to-mouth contact. They should teach it in school. Well, college.

            I tried to speak without words, narrowed my eyes, mouth breathed. Come closer. Don’t wait for me. Be the man. Kiss me. And please, let it be wonderful.

            He leaned toward me but his seatbelt stopped him. I released it. He fell against me. I nudged him back so we were face to face then I closed my eyes, felt his breath on my cheek, smelled wine, café au lait. I smiled, softened.

            All of a sudden he was on me. What I wanted, but not. Everything was hard, sharp, open. Wrong. I retreated inside myself, like a snail, felt the coolness of the window through my hair.

            “?Qu'est-ce que c'est?”

            I squinted at the windshield. “Nothing.”

            He gathered my hands in his again, inspected them. “I must tell you one thing.”

            My inhale sounded hissy, disappointed. “Yes? Oui?”

            “Je suis marié.”

            I shook my head. “You’re Mary?” I said. “What does that mean?”

            His mouth hitched to one side. “Non. I am not Mary. I am Eric. I mean to say, I am married.”

            My stomach lurched. For a moment I thought the snails inside me had come to life. They crawled, slimed.

            “You’re married? Really?”

            “Really. But it is no good.”

            I huffed, chuckled, rolled my eyes. All at once. “Of course it’s not.”

            He came at me again, confirmed the fact, the facts. He’s not better. He’s not the one.

            I made my hands parentheses on his face to stop him, to show him.

            “Ici. Pour votre femme.”

            He tilted his head, squinted. “For my wife? What?”

            “Oui,” I said. “Pour votre femme. You must kiss her slow and small—petite, so she wants more—plus.”

            I opened my mouth in a silent roar, traced a circle in front of it with my pointer finger.

            “When your mouth is this big, it’s hard. To kiss, it should be soft, yielding. Accepting, giving. Comprenez-vous?”

            He crossed his arms, sagged a little. “Oui. Je sais. I am no good.”

            I focused on his lips, pressed my pinkie into the center of his bottom one.

            “But you can learn,” I said. “Make her ache, Eric, and burn. Pour vous.”

            He leaned toward me. “Like this?”

            I cupped my hand over his Cabernet smile. “Save it,” I whispered, “for her.”

            He sat back, shut his eyes, sighed. I returned to my side of the car, buckled my seat belt. And I’ll save it, for him.

The Bodacious Maturation of Wonder Riley--1

The best present Granny Cat Clark ever received was from me—Wonder Riley. I know this because she tells me practically every day. She covers my wild red rumpus hair with her big-as-man hands and exclaims.

            “Wonder, have I told you lately how incredibly special I find my throne?”

            I’d trash-picked the eight foot antique hall tree but I took care to never mention that fact to her. I had no desire to reduce it in her esteem. Even so, I suspect Granny Cat may have figured it out as I am not a young woman of great means.

            Most recently, I told her of an exciting and wonderful future event.

            “My beau’s creating a seat cushion for it, Granny Cat,” I said. “Then you’ll love it even more.”

            She p-shawed me. “Now you listen here, Sugar Pop,” she said. “That boy is not your beau, not your forever love. Trust me. I have a gift. I know these things.”

            She coaxed two tangerine-colored tendrils out of my updo, arranged them on either side of my face.

            “A boy who sews fashion items is not one who will adore a woman,” she said. “Well, not in the way you want. Or need.”

            I’d laid my hand over hers. “But it’s rainbow velvet, Granny. With a brush fringe. I’m pretty sure you’ll wet your britches when you see it.”

            I didn’t want her to be right about Charlie, but her certainty gave me pause. Maybe that’s why he always kissed my fingers, not my cheek. Nor my lips, full and glossy as I maintained them. Whenever we came together after a separation he’d say, “Enchante” and lift my fingertips to his mouth. He wouldn’t release them for the longest time. And sometimes his eyelashes appeared damp. That meant he cared, right?

            Charlie'd worn mittens, charcoal gray ones, the last time we’d been together. His papa had duct-taped them to his wrists.

            “Why?” I said as I fished Granny Cat’s sewing scissors out of her darning basket. “Is he concerned you would— That we might—”

            Charlie collapsed beside me on the sofa. “No,” he said as he wept against my chest. “He doesn’t want me to stitch again. Ever.”

            But that’s a recent tale. I probably should regress.

(You can read part 2 here.) 

Crushed--Part VI

The dream was so real. We were in a forest. Actually, it felt like the ribcage of a forest. I felt its respiration—in, out. Or rather, expand, deflate. It was damp there. Inside the woody bubble. Smelled like the ocean. Or clean sweat. Was that the air or him?

            He, Jake, was around me. Behind me. I sat in the circle of him. Felt his breath stir my hair. He kissed the indentation at the base of my neck.  Right there. I put my fingers up to touch the spot and he kissed them too. There was pressure and softness, all at the same time.

            Wake up. I remember hearing the silent command. Inside my head. My eyes opened. Focused. I was alone. My heartrate slowed. Eventually.

           

I’ve got this. There’s a sentence I know. All I have to do is chant it. Over and over. Better yet, I’ll write it on my hand. Both of them if necessary. With a Sharpie marker. Look at it on the hour.  And then some.

            “But when you are tempted, He will provide a way out so you can stand up under it.”

            Promise me, God, that I’ll see the way out. When it comes.  

Millie and I waited for Silas on the front porch.  While he ran back in for her joint supplement.  

            “Can’t forget that,” Silas said.

            “You’re such a good doggy daddy,” I told him.

            He pulled the front door shut.  I stretched to hand him the house key.  He paused inside the screen door. 

            “What?” I said.

            “The phone’s ringing.  Should I get it?”

            “Look at the caller i.d..” Is this the way out, Lord? Right now? 

            “It’s Grandma,” he said from the foyer.

            “Don’t answer it.  I’ll call her when we get back.”

            We headed down the steps.  I surveyed the flowers by the curb. Orange daylillies waned. Black-eyed Susans were coming on.  You all are gorgeous. Keep up the good work. Millie did her business.  A block down. Right beside Mrs. Hinkle's recycling bin.

            I looked up from scooping. “Daddy forgot to put recycling out.  Should we . . ." 'Cause God could use trash. As a way out.

            Silas shook his head.  “Not now. He’s waiting.”

            Millie led the way.  She sniffed. Peed.  Munched strands of grass. Whenever she spied a cat or rabbit, she’d freeze. Crouch slightly. Her eyes would narrow.  I considered letting the leash fall.  To see if she’d give chase. But what if—What if she ran so hard, so fast, something broke, like it did with— I wrapped the leash around my wrist.

            “Come on, girl. Not today.”  Not ever.

            Silas bumped me with his shoulder. On purpose.

            “Yes?”

            “Did you remember your notebook? With your stories?”

            I nodded.  Patted the tote bag at my side. 

            “Cool,” he said. “And if he asks about why he's blind, what're you gonna say?”

             “I think I’ll just tell him my theory.”

            Silas's eyes crinkled. “What theory?”

            “That when faced with a crisis or tragedy, I haven’t decided which word to use there, people either turn to God or away. And then I'll expound upon that.”

            Silas's face went funny.

            I stuck my bottom lip out.  “No good?” I tugged the lead. “Millie.  Come on.  We’re not going that way. Or Job.  I could go with Job.  Remember how God didn’t do all that sucky stuff to Job? He just allowed the devil to?”

            “But then maybe Jake’d be mad at God for allowing him to go blind.”

            I puffed at my bangs.  “Guess I’ll have to use my go-to prayer.”

            “What’s that?”

            I put my palms together and looked at the sky. “God, do something. Please.”

            “Or you could just tell him ‘God works all things for the good of those who love him.’”

            My mouth dropped open. “Wow! How did I get such a smart son?” I handed him the leash. “Your turn.”

            We walked another block or so.  Silas broke into a trot. Glanced back to see if Millie’d do the same. She didn’t. He slowed.

            “Hey, look,” I said. I pointed up the street. “There’s Miss Wise. Out in her yard. We used to go to church with her. Back when you were a baby.”

            A thin woman with a blue-grey bob took tiny steps toward the sidewalk. Once there, she awaited our approach. Her hands made a shelf over her brow, shaded her eyes. 
           “Why, is that who I think it is?” she said.

            I smiled. “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Dana and Silas Martinelli. And our dog, Millie.”

            She reached out to Silas. Her hand trembled. A lot.

“This young man was swaddled last time I saw him,” she said. “Pastor Agnew sprinkled that little round head with baptismal water. But it was bald back then. Just look at it now.”

            I leaned against the telephone pole beside me. Felt a sudden and tender warmth for this woman I hadn’t seen in almost twelve years. 
           She gripped Silas’s hand and looked him in the eye. “I just made cookies. Do you like peanut butter cookies, Silas?" she said. She let go of him so she could talk with her hands. "The ones with the crisscross fork marks? Fresh from the oven? If you pick one up, it’ll probably fold or break in half.  They’re that warm.”

Silas looked over his shoulder at me. His teeth were clenched. His eyes wide. He’s embarrassed. ‘Cause she’s making a fuss over him. My mama’s heart knew.  I nodded. It’s okay.

He faced her again. “That’s warm, all right.”

“And ice cold milk,” she said. “I shake the carton real good so it gets froth on top when you pour it.”

"Yum."

Miss Wise moved her right hand to his forearm. Gripped it. When she headed for the house, he carefully matched his steps with hers. I closed my eyes. Felt a sting of tears.  My boy’s a good boy. I made him that way. Joel and I did.

Miss Wise glanced back. “I have coffee too, Dana. Folgers, not Starbucks, but I make it good and strong.”

I caught up with them. Took Millie’s leash from Si. “All the same to me,” I said. I looked up. Pinched the thumb and pointer finger of my left hand together. Sorry, Lord. It was just a little lie.

A half hour later, Silas and I inched toward her front door.

            "Oh, don't go," Miss Wise said. "You just got  here. Sit a spell."

            "We'll come back," I said. "We promise. Right, Silas?" Or, are we supposed to stay here with her all day? Is this the way out, Lord?              
            "Yeah," he said. "It's just, we have some place to be right now."

            I gave her a hug. "Take care, Miss Wise." I said. "We'll try to stop by next week."

             “You called her Miss Wise. Was she ever married?” Silas said when we got to the street.

            “Nope.”

            His brow furrowed. “Wonder why? She’s so nice.”

            “You sure you don’t want to take some cookies with you?” she called from her porch.

            Silas turned. Shook his head and patted his tummy. 
           “No, thanks," he yelled. "I’m stuffed. But thanks."

            “I have no idea,” I said.  “I think she’s beautiful.”

            Once we turned the corner, we couldn’t see her wave anymore. Silas picked up the pace.

            “I hope Jake’s not freaking out.”

            I took bigger strides to keep up. Squinted up the hill at Jake’s yard. He wasn’t out. There were no camp chairs either.

            Silas stopped. Faced me. “Do you think he forgot?”

            I shrugged. “Not sure,” I said. Or did something happen at the doctor? I felt my heart skip over the place where it usually beat. We stepped up on the curb and into the yard. The high grass tickled my ankles.
            Silas cupped his hands around his mouth. “Jake!”

            I pushed his hands down. Held his wrists. “He might be resting,” I said.

            Silas pulled loose. Handed me Millie’s leash.

“Hold her,” he said. “Something’s on the door.” He ran to see. That’s when I knew. This, that thing on the door, whatever it is, is the way out.

            I watched Silas cross the yard. Go up the steps. Stand in front of the door. Blood pulsed in my ears--ba-bum, ba-bum.  What is it? A note? A sign? What does it say? He yanked the paper off the door and ran back. Handed it to me.

            “What’s wrong?” I said as I took it. To make you look like that?

            “Read it.” 

            I smoothed the crumples on my thigh. Held it at arm's length. Waited for my eyes to focus.

            Dear Intruders:

            My dad doesn’t need your company or your sympathy. He has me!

            And we do just fine without you! Lady, I can see the way you look

            at him, but you’re not my mom. You never will be!! So both of you

            just stay away from him!

            Don’t come back,

            His real son

            I gulped. Noticed the instant slickness of my palms. And my underarms. I folded the paper in half. Did it again. And once more. Used my fingers to sharpen the creases. Tucked the note in the knee pocket of my cargo capris. Millie tugged toward the house. Whined.

            “Sorry, girl,” I said. “Not today." Not ever again.

            Silas didn’t move.  He kept looking back at the house.

            “Come one, Si. Let’s go.”

            He huffed. “But why? We don’t even know who wrote it.”

            “Oh, Silas,” I said. “Kevin did. Obviously he doesn’t want us here.”

            “But he’s at soccer.”

            I reached for his elbow. “No, he’s not, hon. I’m guessing he didn’t make the team.”
            I made sure not to look at the house. At the windows. I knew he was in there. Probably watching us. Maybe holding up his middle finger. I felt his anger throb. And burn. It was like a lighthouse beam. Come closer and you’re in big trouble, people.

            Silas’s eyes shone. Almost spilled over. “I don’t get it. Why doesn’t he want us to hang out with Jake? It’s not like he does. And what did he mean about the way you--”

           I rested my palm in the small of his back. Steered him and Millie toward home.

“I’m not sure.” I winced. Peeked up at the clouds. Another one. Not so little. Sorry.

Halfway home I put Millie's lead in my right hand and opened my left. Saw my sentence smeared. Maybe I should get a tatoo. Just in case.

Black Lungs

I’m dying.  The doctor said it, standing there in the hall with my x-ray films, so it must be true.  Now the kids crouch beside me and talk loud, as if I’m deaf.  Coddle me.  Bring me cases of Ensure.  Their whispers are like buzzing flies when they think I’m asleep.

The grandkids beg me to give up cigarettes.  “So you’ll live longer, Gramps,” they say.  “We want you with us forever.”

They don’t know what it’s like to only have one comfort left in the world.  Well, maybe two.  My easy chair in front of the big screen tv consoles me.  Sometimes.  I bought it with money I won gambling.  They tell me to give that up too.  They probably think I'll blow their inheritance on a slot machine.  What?  Do they think I have piles of gold somewhere?  Ha!

~~~

My oldest boy, his wife hired some gals, not much younger’n me, to come and scrub a lifetime of smoke—mine and hers—off the windows.  I tried to tell ‘em—the kids, the gals--I like it there.  Sometimes I press my hand to the coolness.  This was in her body.  Write her name on the glass with my pointer finger.  This grey veil came out of the mouth she kissed me with.

At night when everyone else on the block is sleeping and I can’t, I go room to room.  Hold onto the walls for support.  I guess I’m looking for her, or a trace of who she was. 

She used to bring me coffee in here, when I shaved.  She’d sit on the commode and giggle when I dabbed her nose with shaving cream.

In here, the kitchen she had me paint the color of butter, she cooked my favorites--country ham, red-eyed gravy, fried potatoes.  Orange peel was the secret ingredient in her strawberry rhubarb pie.  I could polish one off in a day, but she never let me.  No one made stuffed pork chops like my Nancy.  No one.

This was the room where we made love and children.  Every Friday night.  She never had a headache.  Not once.  Her tinyness fit into my hands even though I’m not a big man.  Saturday mornings her face would look rashy—razzed by my whiskery, over and over kisses.  I’d brush her cheeks with my knuckles and apologize with my eyes.  I swear, she could still blush, even at 60.

Four children started out in this corner bedroom.  She called the color, Parakeet Green. Looked more like split pea soup to me.  I can still smell the Lysol she used in the diaper pail.  I hated that sharp scent.  Seemed more angry than clean to me.  If I shut my eyes and don’t move, I can hear her croon, “Rock-a-bye Baby” to each hairless, slate-eyed child.  And that one night?  Crap!  I hate this kind of remembering.  She shook me awake.  I thought her fingernails would go right through my skin. 

“Harry!  Get up!  Something’s wrong!  The baby’s not—“

I dug the grave.  Hardly bigger’n a bread box.  I knew the guys at the cemetery.  They let me go over the hill alone with a shovel, to mutilate the red, West Virginia clay.  I swore out loud.  Took the Lord’s name in vain.  Only once though.  She never let me do it at home.  After awhile, my knees hit the frozen sod.  Crushed the silvered grass.  I hollered at the clouds.

“The child was ours—mine and hers.  Yours too.  Why’d you take her?  Why?”

~~~

After we buried little Elaine, Nancy got out her baptism dress almost every day.  She’d press and press it.  Iron and iron it.  She seemed to think if she got out every last wrinkle, she’d get baby Elaine back, or maybe see her again.  Just one more time.  But that dress was Irish linen, passed down to Nancy from her older sister.  I don’t know much, but I know linen is a pain in the ass to press.

When Nancy went in the hospital, she begged me to keep ironing the dang thing.

“First thing, Harry,” she’d say.  “When you get home, try one more time.  For me.  Please?”

So I’d get it out of the closet in the baby room.  Take it down to the basement and try to get it as smooth as when it left Ireland.  Crazy cloth.  I’d get one wrinkle out and wind up with two more.  There at the end though, I got it perfect.  Made every single line go away.  I hung it on its padded, satin hanger and laid it on the back seat of my Buick.  When I showed her, her face became radiant, like--  Like she was already gone.  Somewhere else. 

I felt my face collapse in on itself.  Oh, no!  What have I done?  I jerked it from the hanger.  Balled it up.  Squeezed it smaller, tighter.  Punched it.  Maybe it wasn’t too late.  She tried to yell, but her voice came out sounding like a baby bird’s.  She acted like she was gonna come after me, after the dress, but she couldn’t lift herself more than a couple inches.  Dehydrated as she was, her tears were a flood. 

The doctor called that night, right after I brushed my teeth.  I knew before I answered the phone.  Before I left the hospital really.

~~~

Every Sunday I drive out to the graveyard.  Take her daisies from the fancy new grocery store out that way.  Sometimes I get our little Elaine a sucker.  I unwrap it and stick it in the ground by the bronze Beloved Child marker.  The candy’s always gone the next time I go.

The kids got me some kinda folding chair contraption to take to the cemetery, so I don’t sit on the ground.  My knees lock up these days if I get down low.  Sometimes I do it anyway, ‘cause it feels closer.  To her.  To them.

I don’t smoke when I go to see her.  When she was . . .   There at the end, she made me promise to stop.  It’s the only promise to her I didn’t keep.  The thing is, I want to die.  The living, the young, think dying’s a bad thing.  Not me.  I’m ready right now, this very minute.  So at home, I sit in my easy chair and light up, over and over.  Try to smoke more today than yesterday.  Newsflash, grandkids.  I don’t want to live forever.  The way I see it, the sooner I die, the quicker I’ll be with my two little gals.

A Month of Love--Story #3

French Kiss



Back then, I hadn’t mastered the art of finding a flaw.  Hadn’t even thought of it yet.  Of protecting myself from little crushes with a prayer.  Show me, God.  Reveal something undesirable about this guy—halitosis, a lousy work ethic, a collection of Skipper dolls—that’ll make this constant thought of ‘what if’ go away. 

I don’t remember the year.  It’s not important.  I can tell you where he worked though.  At the change bank.  Under the Arc de Triomphe.  In the shade of it. 

The guy at the window next to him was tall, very.  He had a wonderful smile, so friendly, but he wasn’t beautiful.  Not like Eric.  Eric’s skin looked like crème brulee.  The custard underneath, not the crispy, bubbled brown top.  His eyes?  They were polar ice water blue.  How do you say that in French?  Je ne sais pas.  His gaze was intense.  I wanted to ask if his eyes were tired ‘cause I never saw him blink.  Ever.  His lips looked like Cabernet, as if he’d recently taken a sip, sans a glass.  Just put his mouth in a vat of it.  Juicy.  What would that taste like?  I felt heat in my cheeks, at the possibility.

I thought about him each day.  In every country.  Switzerland.  Germany.  Italy.  Greece.  The last time I saw him, he’d pressed a business card into my palm.

“Call me.  The minute, no, the second, you return to France.  Oui?”

I tucked a wisp of hair behind my ears and smiled.  “Oui.”

My tummy simmered when I called him from the payphone at Charles de Gaulle two months later.

“Bonjour, Eric.  C’est moi.  Je suis ici, a  Paris.”

“That is so great,” he said.  His voice sounded soft, like a whisper.   “Will you have dinner with me? Ce soir?”

My heart revved.  “Yes.  Oui.”

I barely remember the meal.  Except for the garlicky, buttery, snails.  And the wine, le tres bon vin.  He wanted to order Ile Flottante—that floating island dessert--but I put my hand over my mouth.

“I can’t eat another bite,” I said.  “But I’ll have more wine, s’il vous plait.  It’s amazing.”

He worked at the label, to peel it off for me.  

“It is from Alsace, my favorite wine region,” he said.  “If you like, we can go to Reims and taste its champagne.  I have an uncle there who would—“

I sighed and shook my head.  “I can’t, Eric.  I have to go home, to America.”

He covered his face with his hands.  Pretended to sob.  “I will die.   You will take my heart with you when you go.”

I squeezed my chair seat with both hands and leaned across the table.  “Silly boy.”

He made his eyes big.   Pushed his bottom lip out.  “It is true.  Surely I will perish when you depart.”

I glanced at my watch.  “We should go.  I have to catch an early hovercraft back to England tomorrow.”

We held hands inside his olive green Renault.  Over the gear shift.  The moonlight came through the windshield.  Made his creamy skin luminous.  He made little strokes on each of my fingernails.  Held my knuckles to his mouth.  I wanted his lips on mine, not on my hands.  I had to know. Had to.  If this was as good as that.  If he, French boy, could be more wonderful than him, American guy.  What if my man back home (Je sais.  Je suis terrible!), wasn’t the one after all?

It all depends on the kiss, you know.  If you can’t kiss, if you’re not really good at it, what can you do?  If you can’t melt chocolate with the promise of your lips, make its velvety sweetness drip and ooze so the other person wants to slurp up every drop, can you really love?  Is it possible you can live well?  I don’t think so.  Everything rides on mouth-to-mouth contact.  They should teach it in school. Well, college.

I tried to speak without words.  Narrowed my eyes.    Mouth breathed.  Come closer.  Don’t wait for me.  Be the man.  Kiss me.  And please, let it be wonderful.

He leaned toward me, but his seatbelt stopped him.  I released it.  He fell against me.  I pushed him back, so we were face to face.  I closed my eyes.  Felt his breath on my cheek.  Smelled wine, café au lait.  I smiled.  Softened. 

All of a sudden he was on me.  What I wanted, but not.  Everything was hard, sharp, open.  Wrong.  I pulled inside myself, like a snail.  Felt the coolness of the window through my hair.

“?Qu'est-ce que c'est?”

I looked through the windshield.  “Nothing.”

He took my hands again.  Inspected them.  “I must tell you one thing.”

My inhale sounded hissy.  Disappointed.  Distracted.  “Yes?  Oui?”

“Je suis marié.”

I shook my head.  “You’re Mary?” I said.  “What does that mean?”

His mouth pulled to one side.  “Non.  I am not Mary.  I am Eric.  I mean to say, I am married.”

My stomach lurched.  It felt as if the snails inside me had come to life.  They crawled.  Slimed.

“You’re married?  Really?”

“Really.  But it is not good.”

I huffed, chuckled, and rolled my eyes.  All at the same time.  “Of course it’s not.”

He came at me again.  Confirmed the fact.  The facts.   He’s not better.  He’s not the one.

I held his face in my hands.  To stop him.  To show him.

“Ici.  Pour votre femme.”

He pulled back.  Squinted.  “For my wife?  What?”

“Oui,” I said.  “Pour votre femme.  You must kiss her slow.  And small--petite.  So she wants more--plus.”

I opened my mouth in a silent roar. Traced a circle in front of it with my pointer finger.

 “When your mouth is this big, it’s hard.  To kiss, it should be soft.  Yielding.  Accepting.  Giving.  Comprenez-vous?”

He crossed his arms.  Sagged a little.  “Oui.  I am no good.”

I looked at his lips.  Pressed my pinkie into the center of his bottom one.

“But you can learn,” I said.  “Make her ache, Eric.   And burn.  Pour vous.”

He leaned toward me.  “Like this?”

I cupped my hand over his Cabernet smile.  “Save it,” I whispered. “For her.”

He sat back.  Shut his eyes.  Sighed.  I returned to my side of the car.  Put on my seat belt.  And I’ll save it.  For him.