A short story by Jean Handover.

As I mentioned on February 14th, Jean and I are attending a creative writing class at our local extension college and on that day I published a story from me called Messages from the Night.  Now it’s Jean’s turn.

The Kiss
by
Jean Handover

She sat at the end of the bar.  Her misery was palpable.  An invisible shroud that hunched her shoulders and bent her head over the glass of wine.  She peered into the pale liquid like it were a pool to drown in.

She was pretty in a faded way.  Trying hard; skirt a little too short, blouse a little too low and blood red lipstick.  Dark for a pinched mouth.  A slim body the way I liked it!  All around were drunken revellers whilst she remained in a bubble.  I wanted to take her in my arms and crush her to my body and burst that bubble.

Hoisting my beer, I ambled to the stool beside her.  She didn’t stir.  Seemed unaware of my presence.  I looked at our reflections in the mirror opposite.  Then at Rose the barmaid.  Rose of the buzzcut and tattoos.  The tattoo on her neck.  Then a small voice, “Why would anyone have lips tattooed on their neck?”

“Guess that’s where Rose likes to be kissed,” I said, taking a gulp of my beer and casting a glance in her direction.

“Yeah, that is a nice place for a kiss.”

She turned and a small smile twitched her lips.  “I shouldn’t have come here.  I’m not used to this scene,” she said.

“How long have you been divorced?” I asked.

“How can you tell I’m divorced?” she replied.

“Your ring finger has a wide indent.”

She fanned her fingers and looked.  “Dead giveaway, isn’t it,” she wanely replied.

“What happened?” I asked.

“He came home one night and said he’d found someone else!”

“Younger woman?” I asked.

“No worse, a younger man!”

“Oops!” I said.

She swivelled in the stool and faced the crowd.  The shroud was slipping perceptively.  I finished my beer and beckoned for Rose to bring us another round.  The divorcee was prettier that I thought at first.  Her hand pushed a lock of hair behind an ear and trailed down her neck, then smoothing her skirt rested on a rounded knee.  A fluid sensuous motion.  I wanted to touch that hand.

“Oh God, no,” she gasped.  Eyes large and face suddenly flushed.  “It’s him with the boyfriend.  They’ve just come in.”

“Don’t worry, Babe.  Let’s just walk right past and get out of here.”

I took her hand and as we strolled past the two men I gently leaned over and kissed her on the neck.  On the same place as Rose’s tattoo.

My lips lingered and with my arm around her waist, we drifted out into the night.

“That felt so good, what’s your name?” I asked.

“Elizabeth.  What’s yours?” she asked.

“Melissa.”

Copyright © 2012, Jean Susan Handover

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