Kissy-Face
"Well, this is boring!" Katrina announced.
So what else is new? Sandy thought. Her oldest friend was always bored, whether at Bar 13, or not.
But tonight was exceptionally bad. Even the jukebox seemed to play the same old shit. Outside, it was bitterly cold, early January. Dead Christmas trees lined all the curbs.
"I wish guys would come in."
Both Sandy and Misty, the bartender, looked away. There were guys at the bar: Homeless Jack, who cleaned up after closing and went on Lotto runs for the regulars, and Tito the Pest. Tito loved to hang on you, breathe garlic breath in your face. He'd just bought a round of drinks, so they had to be nice.
"It's a slow night," Misty said. Sandy nodded.
"Well," Katrina said, "You don't care. You've got Bruce."
Misty smiled. Bruce was her live-in boyfriend, who did everything, for her. Ate her pussy nonstop, paid the bills, even cleaned and cooked. Right now a stuffed pork chop wrapped in foil was on top of the nuke. Both Sandy and Katrina kept looking at it, then away.
"Wish I could meet a guy like him," Katrina muttered.
"You wouldn't want him," Misty said, "No challenge."
Sandy smirked. Misty was right. Katrina got bored so fast, guys' heads spun.
All three were thirty-eight, working girls, but different types. Misty was dark-haired, tough, but sympathetic. Your typical bartender/shrink. Katrina had big red hair, like it was still the 80s. Always dressed for "Girls' Night Out," even for bum nights at Bar 13. Katrina was always on the prowl . . .
Not Sandy. She hated the bar scene. She was black-haired, and tiny, like a chesty, white Geisha. Sandy . . .
Juan, she thought, for the zillionth time, that night. Her eyes filled with tears.
. . . Loved bad boys. One bad boy, for way too long. This lean, alley cat of a guy who'd trashed her in Spanglish in front of his pals. Used her for sex and bucks, and a place to sleep. But oh, how he kissed . . .
"Kissy-Face," he called her. This long tongue, he had, that nearly choked her. In the middle of a kiss, he'd pull out, lick her lips,
slowly . . .
One tear dripped onto her lips, and she licked it away.
A month ago, he'd split. But still she smelled him on her sheets: the mustard-yellow ones she couldn't bear to change.
Misty looked away, but Katrina turned on Sandy. "Crying over him?" she said. "Get over that asshole!"
"I . . . can't." Sandy picked up her beer, put it back down.
Misty refilled Sandy's shot glass with 'Buca, didn't take any money. "You will," she said wisely, "In time."
"He's got a new girlfriend, now." Katrina loved rubbing it in. "That biker bitch, Jess. She'll kill you, if you don't lay off."
"Stop!" Sandy cried harder. She put her head down on the bar.
"I know!" Misty said brightly. Katrina nudged Sandy, who looked up, finally.
Misty's eyes sparkled. "Let's play a game."
Katrina snorted. Sandy put her head back down. "I hate games!" Katrina said.
Games, Sandy thought. Hadn't she had enough of Juan's? I love you, Mami, he'd said, lots of times, before sneaking money from her purse.
"But this," Misty told them, "Is a different kind of game."
Sandy looked up, reluctantly. Tito the Pest had left, and Misty was wiping the bar where he'd sat. "This," she said, "Is the 'Kissing' Game!"
"The what?" Homeless Jack said, from the end of the bar.
"Who we gonna kiss?" Katrina demanded. She turned her back on him. "Each other?"
"No." Misty grabbed the Malibu. As she mixed Katrina's drink, she said, "Each time the door opens, and a guy comes in, one of us has to kiss him."
Sandy looked up at the Bud clock. It was eleven-thirty. "We might be here all night!" Katrina said. "Waiting for three guys!"
"Were you planning on leaving?" Misty said.
Katrina glared at Sandy, who said meekly, "Guess not."
"Better than sitting home . . . crying," Katrina said.
"Oh . . . one more thing," Misty said, from the register. When she turned around, she wasn't smiling. "You can't tell him why you're kissing him."
"Then forget it," Katrina said. "What if it's some creep?"
Sandy lit up. Imagining some fat, needy slob walking in . . . for Katrina's turn . . . made her howl with laughter. It was the first time she'd laughed in a long time. Maybe since she'd met Juan. It felt so good.
Katrina smirked. "Maybe you'll get Juan."
Sandy stopped laughing. Juan, she thought miserably, had moved down the shore with that Jess bitch.
"Choose." Cupped in Misty's palm were three folded-up papers.
"I 'ain't kissin' no guys!" Homeless Jack yelled drunkenly, from the end of the bar.
"You're not even in this!" Misty yelled back.
Katrina unfolded her paper. "I'm second."
"Third," Sandy said, still sniffling.
As the door buzzed open, all three girls jumped. "I'm on!" Misty headed to the front end of the bar. The hottest guy in Bar 13's history peered around, clearly for somebody he knew. His hot chick, Sandy thought. Model-handsome, tall, even tanned, he seemed out of place in here.
When Misty reached up and kissed his cheek, he looked surprised, but pleased.
"Figures," Katrina growled. "She's got a boyfriend!"
Misty was still talking to the guy. Then she opened the door, pointed up the block. He thanked her, and left.
"Damn!" Misty bounded back towards them. "If I didn't have Bruce . . ."
Katrina stiffened.
"He was looking for Peppino's, that fancy joint. Said, 'If my date don't show, I'm coming back here.' " Misty cracked a fresh beer for Sandy. "Hope he does. Maybe he'll cheer you up."
When the door buzzed open, Katrina got up. "Maybe it's him, coming back."
"It don't count," Misty said smugly, "if he was here already."
"Fuck that!"
The door was ajar, but nobody came in. Katrina walked as steadily as she could, in her spike-heeled boots.
As Spit and Ringo, two beefy bikers, came in, she stopped dead. Then, standing on tiptoes, she kissed both their cheeks. "I have to do this!" she whispered, so loudly, Sandy heard her. "It's a stupid game."
"I heard that!" Misty yelled. "No fair, no fair!"
"Call that a kiss?" Spit, the grosser one, said. "I'll show ya!" He grabbed Katrina, who struggled to free herself. Spit's wet, sloppy kiss could be heard all over Bar 13.
"Eee-yew!" Homeless Jack yelled.
Sandy and Misty laughed so hard, they cried. Slapped each other five. Misty poured her another shot, and one for herself. Downed them, as a flustered Katrina came back to her seat.
"I hate this game!" she wailed. "I'm not playing anymore."
"You've got to," Misty said. "That didn't count."
"Who cares?" Katrina had her mirror out, fluffed up her flattened hair. "There's no prize!"
"Maybe there is," Ringo said. On their way to the pool table, Spit pinched Katrina's side. She jumped. "Me!" Spit said. His grin showed blue-black teeth.
Katrina shuddered.
"Okay," Misty said. "That counts. Sandy, you're next."
And last, she thought. Suddenly, she was depressed, again.
Juan, she thought. Why couldn't she get over him? Even change her sheets? Each time her phone rang, her heart leapt. What if . . . she always thought, though it hadn't been Juan for so long.
If only . . . she thought, he hadn't moved away. Here in Jersey, moving down the shore was like going out to the West Coast. He was gone. Gone forever, with that biker bitch.
"It won't last," Misty said, like she'd read Sandy's mind. "I gotta feeling . . . he'll be back."
Sandy looked up, hopefully.
"But he's no good," Katrina said, in the kindest voice she'd used all night. "He hurt her so bad, and he'll just do it again."
"I . . . don't care," Sandy said. "I just want him." It was true. . Sad, wasn't it? Only Juan, that thieving, catlike Latino, could make her heart race. The tanned stranger who'd got the others all hot . . . did shit for her. Even if he'd dropped to his knees, and handed her jewels . . . When the door buzzed open, nobody jumped, this time.
Misty gnawed the end of her pork chop. "Hey, Sand," she said, in a muffled voice. "S'your turn."
"Aw, shit," Katrina said.
Without looking, herself, Sandy knew something was up. This lethal tension was in the air. For the first time that night, she felt a chill.
She came in, first. Without seeing her before, Sandy knew it was her. Straight blonde hair, ferocious eyes. That "jowly" look, like she'd lived hard and fast, and wasn't done, yet. "Hey, Ring-oh!" she yelled, from the door. In her heavy leather jacket, she swaggered into Bar 13.
Then he came in.
Without realizing it, Sandy got up.
"No!" Katrina dug her nails in Sandy's shoulder, but she shook her off. "Don't do it!"
In a month, Juan had changed, not for the best. Either he was growing a beard, or had given up shaving. His dark eyes looked huge, empty. Like this Juan was a shell, and his soul was still snuggled in Sandy's dirty yellow sheets. Like Jess, he wore biker leather.
As she passed Jess, Sandy's knees nearly gave out. Still, she rushed over to Juan.
"What the fuck . . ." Jess had turned, on a dime.
"Sandy!" Misty sounded alarmed. "Game's over! Get back here!"
Almost in slow motion, Sandy placed her hands on Juan's shoulders. The leather was ice-cold. He backed away. "Mami," he said, nervously, "Be cool, okay?"
Sandy couldn't help smiling. He was back! "Kissy-Face" was gonna give him a big, fat kiss, and all would all be okay again. A magical game, this was. In fairy tales, you kissed a frog, but here, at Bar 13 . . .
She'd just touched her lips to his, when she was seized, from behind. A rough hand jerked her around. "Who's this cunt?" Jess demanded. Her nails were like claws.
"Baby, I don't know. Never seen her before, I swear." Juan sounded scared, but Sandy's heart lurched. "Must have me mixed up with . . ."
"Fuck off!"
"It's the truth!" Misty had joined them, by the door. "They're strangers! It was just a game . . ."
"A 'kissing' game," Katrina said, from behind Sandy.
"Right, Spit?" Misty yelled.
"Nobody kisses him but me!" Jess yelled.
Sandy stared hard at Juan. Her Juan, who swore he didn't know her. "Juan," she said, in a choked voice. He looked away.
"Give 'er a shot!" Spit yelled, from the pool table. "So she calms the fuck down!" Stick in hand, Ringo howled with laughter.
"Drinks on me," Misty said. "The bar is buying."
When he tried to hug her, Jess shoved Juan away. "Drink this!" Like lightning, her blade came out. Somebody gasped.
It was deep inside her, before Sandy knew it. "¡Ay! ," Juan screamed.
And out . . . and in again . . . Jess kept on stabbing. This . . . burning, in her chest. That's how it felt. Painful thickness, like Sandy was drunk on blood . . . When she fell back, someone caught her, held her. Screams, and shouts, Misty on the bar phone. The door buzzed open. Outside, it was flurrying.
The pain got worse. Sandy watched Juan, as long as she could. She had to keep watching him. While she drowned in her blood, she thought he looked sorry.
But he never . . . kissed her . . . goodbye.
-END-
