Don't Kiss Me: Stories by Lindsay Hunter Read Free Book Online Page B

uncuffed her, noted her interesting bone structure. Some cheekbones, he told her.
    The detective cleared the shelf of its Afrins. Turned to offer the woman a chocolate sip, but she was gone. He watched the flight of her hair. Into the dark mouth of the parking lot.
    The detective got wistful, told himself she’d find her way.
    The car smelled like brine and white sugar. The car smelled like her. The detective rolled down the windows and let the wind knife in. The clock said what it said.
    THE SISTERS:
    Stop crying.
    I will.
    You can touch me.
    Where is he?
    He’s everywhere. He’s just everywhere. Hold my hands. Feel how cold.
    THE SISTERS:
    The sisters watched themselves. The room was silver with mirrors.
    At the end of the day Jameson, the chief said, and his head was blurred in smoke, we’re all just looking for ourselves. And where’s Tin Ears?
    The sisters held hands over the table. Their eyes locked on their eyes.
    The listening room shrugged.
    THE DETECTIVE:
    The detective parked at the station, crawled into the back, did the Afrin. Pushed his face into the piss-filled seat. It was no longer warm. He spotted a Tootsie Roll in the floorboard and left it there. He watched Jameson walk to his car.
    A small boy wrung his hands in front of the station. The detective thought how much the station looked like a yellow lightbox. The boy said, Somebody tarred Daddy to the floor . His eyes were small green almonds.
    The detective said, Yeah, yeah, what floor? His head made bright exclamations. He could’ve breathed lava. He took the boy by the shoulder and pushed him into the light. He thought about the cuffs.
    The fat officer at the desk eyed the boy through dark slits. The detective told the boy to have a seat. Walked back to his desk and wrote Cheekbones on the report. He wrote it sloppy enough so that it could be anything.
    In the bathroom he ran the panties under the tap. Scrubbed his face pink. He wondered if the boy had any chalk. In the mirror he glared at himself hatefully.
    THE NIGHT ENDS:
    The chief said, At the end of the day, Tin Ears, the ransom note was the thing.
    No body no death.
    ’Sright. Punch out.
    Who wrote it?
    Somebody else. Punch out.
    THE DETECTIVE:
    The detective wondered about death bloody with absence. How enough blood makes a dead man.
    He took the back door. Drove a horrible length, parked at a grocery store. The day’s sky was slowly spreading itself. The sun was a dazzling orange in a pool of mucus and it hurt his eyes. He had a few minutes to go before it opened. Jelly rolls. Lunch meat.
    The detective thought of the boy waiting on the bench. How he might like to pick a mother out of a lineup.
    He found a fresh Ziploc and some coins in the console. Anything brown would do.
    THE END:
    So that’s it?

 
     
    PLANS
     
    I kissed a teacher once. It ain’t as bad as you think. It was in Shop. He was showing me how to use the band saw and I was in the crook of his arm and we were pushing a two-by-four together and he had the windows open and there was a breeze and I just turned around and passed my tongue through his lips, easy as pie, his mouth tasted like menthol and something else, something like vinegar, something that wasn’t from food or nothing, something like maybe want. Want is bitter like that is what I mean. Right after I thought of the Cheetos I had in my bag, while he looked at me from behind his dinged-up glasses, while his mouth worked like we was still at it, I just leaned back against the table and thought how I’d eat the Cheetos on the bus home, how I’d suck the orange from my fingers.
    Well, he said, when his mouth finally quit.
    Yep, I said. He pushed up his glasses and I could see the grit under his nails, his knuckles knobbed and leathery.
    I had been planning this for a while. This man, this teacher, he was like something whittled in reverse, moving slowly back to the block. All his edges was dull, if he had any edges left. I thought about putting my hands on his