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Short story: The Kiss

Former MemberFormer Member Posts: 1,876,324 The Mix Honorary Guru
You look me straight in the eye, taking my cheek in your hand and telling me this will be the last time. For us. You promise. It won’t be so bad. (Don't. Don't do it)

You are crouched in front of me, balancing your hand upon my knees for support. I always wondered how you did that - only your toes touching the pavement - folded and floating. Surely it must ache? You brush unwashed oily strands of hair from my face and peer into me, trying read my mind, but carefully avoiding the corners, where my unfaithful answer cowers. (nononono). All I see of you is one blue eye, and the cheekbone below; jaundiced in the amber light. The other half of your face is an empty socket, and your mouth is hidden. (Your mouth, I can't see your mouth,).

You look up at me through elongated shadow lashes netted in the bluecastcold dark.
(Don't look, don't throw your one blue eye, one socket upon me.) The grime of the pavement is seeping into my jeans, into my skin, but only the rain water, not the dirt. That will gather upon you. Your eyes have finished their scan of my own, and have chosen not to see my answer (nononono). I can't see your lips as you form the words, but your black mouth tells me again and again, the last time, the only time, necessity, we, us, ourselves.

He is already here, the one you will choose. The specimen (oh how he means nothing to you) stumbles his loud form in a nebula of stagnant Tennants and Malboroughs. He tugs at his crotch, finally succeeding in letting forth through metal teeth a trickle of steaming, acrid urine down the side of the edifice opposite. He hears us and turns his ruddy face in our direction, leering. His nicotine stained teeth glisten with saliva in the lamp light. (How, how, how will you stand there, face to face with this man, and have his putrid breath cast waves across you. How will you place your hands out and up towards him without the quiver of loathing and revulsion quickening your pulse, and glancing shadows across your yellow street lit face?) He leans back and lurches slightly, spilling golden drops onto the lips of his scuffed sneakers.

You take your hot hand from my cheek, and push yourself up from my knees. I say nothing, but know you can see my answer (nononono, not for us, not for anyone, I thought it was over, I thought that you were mine) hanging between us. Without a look back, you pivot and start across the street. Your walk wears a slant that I have never seen before, but I recognise from the other girls that strut these parts, in the late night. Your body is a pout: slouched shoulders, hands in pockets, buttocks shimmying.

I can't watch. Can't see you perform in a play that I know you have acted out more than a hundred times. Still I can't bear to see you be another person. So I become another me, black, careless, nameless bystander. I turn my cheek, numb against the wall and feel the rough cement make indentations in my cheek.

I need to hear the satisfying crack of tightfistknuckle crunch cartilage and flesh. The thickset sound of a victory. But you have never been a violent girl, and instead I hear the laquered night tones of your voice, followed (ohnonono, please you aren't, you aren't, this isn't happening between us) a metallic crescendo and slicksucksounds. (How, how, how can you keep it in your mouth, gagging full round thrusts so hard you want to vomit, muting you, woman, love.)

Your muffled silence, I can't bare to hear it, and I turn to look at you, to see you violent, angry, powerful. But you have already knelt down, genuflected towards his crotch. 0nly the back of your head and your bouncing ponytail (oh god, oh thank god I can't see her face, her face fatsickfull of this man, this throbbing beast) visible to me. But I see his face in the electric haze, (how dare you, how dare you look at me, how dare you search out another woman in the dark when she is beneath you) raised towards mine, staring blindly, lost in the milky white heat of ecstacy. He doesn't see me, but a girl, hunched on the pavement, one of a hundred (blonde, tits, arse, lips, cunt, gyrating hips, shaven, purring pussy) pleasuring sirens. But our eyes. He will never see our eyes. (Your eyes, my eyes, their sad, sad eyes heavy with the weight of the city of experience lying on their lids.)

Moments later (hours and hours, I have sat here watching you and him, your head bobbing and ducking to his grunting rhythm, playing to the beat of the man, to the thick clutch of his pourous hand in your hair, pulling and pushing, until you are sucksickchoked of air) it is over (nomorenomore), and you are stumbling towards me with the banknote grasped in your hand.

Any sign of your strut is gone - the play is over and you are back with me. But changed, and as you throw yourself towards me (oh how sad, how tired you look with the weight of the city of experience hanging in your eyes) I draw back, retreat. I can't touch you, you reek of hops, tobacco and the oldest vice. How can I take you in my arms after this? (What have you done? How can I smooth the whisps in your hair that were by dark digits pulled to their pleaure. Your eyes are lowered (just like him I can never see your eyes)

But I know what you need, and what I must do for you, for us, for the new power you hold in your clammy palm (nononono you didn't, you haven't, you won't. I can't touch you, I can't hold you for green paper). I take you in my arms, and like the notes in your hand, you crumple. You look up at me and I see your blue eyes (both those two blue eyes, I see you all) and the city of experience that clouds them. I know what I must do for you, for us. So I kiss you, and fill my mouth with yours (not just yours, the other, the acridfattybitter piss taste of the drunk's putrid globulent seed is still there, a residue upon your tongue).

And the kiss and I recoil as you lean into me. But I know what you need, and this is it. I take your mouth and place it upon mine; the acridfattybitter piss taste of the other’s putrid, globulent seed soaking into my toungue. I kiss you again, overcome by the same sicksuck urge as you. I pull you closer and quiver with the revulsion at the stench of tobacco, hops and the oldest vice that peels from your skin. But I am here, and it is done, so I kiss you, and taste what you have tasted when no one else will (lips for sucking not for puckering). To at last feel the weight of the city rising from your shoulders (and I love you).
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