Read Online After the Kiss by Terra Elan McVoy - Free Book Online
Authors: Terra Elan McVoy
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know how nice it is to have even a stranger come in and let you run around with them, pretend you arenât trapped inside even if they canât take you home. itâs still nice to have someone who will let you lick their face.
casing the joint
still cold nasty san fran winter-style raining outside: not a downpour or a gusty gale or hail or sleetâjust a slow steady curtain of wet that makes everything bone-achy and shivery, even though itâs not that cold. you drive yourself around in a couple of circles between the shelter and downtown decatur, going the wrong way at the courthouse, finding a dead end where you didnât expect one, squinting through the windshield. but finally you find the goat-monkey place again and even more miraculously manage to wrangle a parallel parking spot right out front. to you it seems like perfect coffeehouse weather but maybe everyone is cozed up at home with their gas fireplaces and their nubbly sweaters, because when you walk inâmoving quickly, keeping in a straight line, acting like youâve been here plenty of times before, this takes no thoughtâthereâs only a snuggly couple together on one of the couches and three individuals all ghost-lit by whateverâs beaming through their laptop screens. you order what you always order, because thereâs never any kind of stupid coffee code for it, no sizes to guess or syrups to memorize: decaf and cakeâthe first cake that catches your eye, the chocolate raspberry mousse one that says itâs vegan though you could care less. when you sit you can finally really look around: cool black-and-white photos (or paintings made to look likeblack-and-white photos) on the wallâon closer inspection, by a local artistâwarm wood floors with assorted worn rugs underneath. small tables with things painted on the tops surrounded by chairs straight from a parisian café. deep leather armchairs and small, well-placed halogen lights on thin wires from the exposed-beam ceiling. you feel yourself let out your breath, settle in. you take a sip of the rich creamy coffee, a bite of chocolate soft explosion. this will do. it will do indeed.
afterimages
days later and you still feel like you had double vision all of saturday night, watching that big baseball facade with the sad soft inner core shining out through those brown eyes. usually people are all they are, wearing themselves on their sleeves (even if theyâre hiding something) but this was a double-exposed photograph in the flesh, flashing back and forth. for all that muscle he didnât try anythingâdidnât even allude to itâand that was at least noticeable if not refreshing. you were just two peopleâa boy and a girlâstanding by a fire, swapping small talk, laughing at the goofs around you, just standing there watching the flames in silence. and for a girl whoâs got to stay in motion it surprised you how it was nice for a while, just being able to stand still. which is maybe why you gave him your e-mail, there at the end. maybe you thought he wouldnât write. sure, maybe thatâs it. but you can still feel the heat of that fire now, the peace and quiet of him next to you, reading this new inbox message:
peacock girl who hides / treasure maps of mystery: / a camouflage smile.
you have the impression heâs trying to make an impression, but youâve lost count of whether itâs first, second, or third. youâre too preoccupied counting out syllables over and over. counting the syllablesâfinding them exactly right.
luliâs laugh
you call and tell her about the catcher. and at first she laughs and you think she (like you) is just amused by it allâa baseball player writing poetry, how ludicrousâbut then her voice turns serious and she says
youâre not really serious, are you?
and you say,
what?
and you donât mean for it to be so defensive, donât mean to sound as though
casing the joint
still cold nasty san fran winter-style raining outside: not a downpour or a gusty gale or hail or sleetâjust a slow steady curtain of wet that makes everything bone-achy and shivery, even though itâs not that cold. you drive yourself around in a couple of circles between the shelter and downtown decatur, going the wrong way at the courthouse, finding a dead end where you didnât expect one, squinting through the windshield. but finally you find the goat-monkey place again and even more miraculously manage to wrangle a parallel parking spot right out front. to you it seems like perfect coffeehouse weather but maybe everyone is cozed up at home with their gas fireplaces and their nubbly sweaters, because when you walk inâmoving quickly, keeping in a straight line, acting like youâve been here plenty of times before, this takes no thoughtâthereâs only a snuggly couple together on one of the couches and three individuals all ghost-lit by whateverâs beaming through their laptop screens. you order what you always order, because thereâs never any kind of stupid coffee code for it, no sizes to guess or syrups to memorize: decaf and cakeâthe first cake that catches your eye, the chocolate raspberry mousse one that says itâs vegan though you could care less. when you sit you can finally really look around: cool black-and-white photos (or paintings made to look likeblack-and-white photos) on the wallâon closer inspection, by a local artistâwarm wood floors with assorted worn rugs underneath. small tables with things painted on the tops surrounded by chairs straight from a parisian café. deep leather armchairs and small, well-placed halogen lights on thin wires from the exposed-beam ceiling. you feel yourself let out your breath, settle in. you take a sip of the rich creamy coffee, a bite of chocolate soft explosion. this will do. it will do indeed.
afterimages
days later and you still feel like you had double vision all of saturday night, watching that big baseball facade with the sad soft inner core shining out through those brown eyes. usually people are all they are, wearing themselves on their sleeves (even if theyâre hiding something) but this was a double-exposed photograph in the flesh, flashing back and forth. for all that muscle he didnât try anythingâdidnât even allude to itâand that was at least noticeable if not refreshing. you were just two peopleâa boy and a girlâstanding by a fire, swapping small talk, laughing at the goofs around you, just standing there watching the flames in silence. and for a girl whoâs got to stay in motion it surprised you how it was nice for a while, just being able to stand still. which is maybe why you gave him your e-mail, there at the end. maybe you thought he wouldnât write. sure, maybe thatâs it. but you can still feel the heat of that fire now, the peace and quiet of him next to you, reading this new inbox message:
peacock girl who hides / treasure maps of mystery: / a camouflage smile.
you have the impression heâs trying to make an impression, but youâve lost count of whether itâs first, second, or third. youâre too preoccupied counting out syllables over and over. counting the syllablesâfinding them exactly right.
luliâs laugh
you call and tell her about the catcher. and at first she laughs and you think she (like you) is just amused by it allâa baseball player writing poetry, how ludicrousâbut then her voice turns serious and she says
youâre not really serious, are you?
and you say,
what?
and you donât mean for it to be so defensive, donât mean to sound as though
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