A Forty Year Kiss

13

He happened into Melissa one night, after leaving Vivian’s house. All evening he’d helped Vivian with the girls. Now he understood her exhaustion. It wasn’t even all the chasing after them, or hula-hooping. Bouncing down a frozen hill on a blue plastic sled. Far more sapping was the sheer concentration, the focus. The effort of doing everything, and from every angle.

Pulling away from that busy little house, he was ready for a beer or two. Ready to relax. To sit at a bar. To ignore some unimportant game on the television. It wasn’t even like he needed the drink. Or drinks. But beer was nothing. Beer was water. One or two or maybe three beers. A handful of pistachios or peanuts. Then home. Getting drunk was no longer on his radar. Besides, he needed to be sober enough to drive. He was tiring a little bit of all the driving, actually. It was worth it, to see her, of course. But he’d put hundreds and hundreds, maybe thousands, of miles on his truck just driving between Spooner and Chippewa Falls. He didn’t know how long he could keep this up. It seemed ultimately a little unsustainable. This long-distance relationship between two sixtysomethings.

Melissa worked at a sad old bar near the river. The kind of place where no one would ever find you, even if they were looking. A dead-end place where souls went to be forgotten. There was no romance about the place, not even, he suspected, dirty love. The men and women who came here were bankrupt in every sense, their bankrupt vehicles parked outside over a sad expanse of broken asphalt and cigarette butts, discarded lighters, wet matchbooks, crushed beer cans, and disappointing lottery tickets. Leaving his truck, he thought more than once about turning right around. But sometimes these places could be gems too. Hidden gems. You never knew until it was too late. Until the door closed shut behind you and everyone sitting at the bar turned to look.

He took a seat at a corner of the bar, low-key in the gloom. Unobtrusive as an empty bottle, or maybe a hat rack. Just another sad man in the shadows. He drummed his fingers against the bar and peered around. At the dusty, ancient taxidermy. The glowing televisions. The less-than-classic jukebox. He was surprised to see her and tried to wave a hello, but she didn’t see him.

She might have been buzzed, or a little stoned; her eyes betrayed a sad sort of dazed tranquility. Standing in the threshold between bar and kitchen, she wore a lopsided smile, as a man, slightly older than her, touched her waist lightly. The way you’d touch the strings of an upright bass. They were flirting; it was easy to see.

Her shift must have been done. Or maybe it was just that kind of place, where the line between on duty and off duty was blurry at best. But she was drinking a glass of beer. She used the glass, with its amber liquid, like a useful prop. She knew she looked good. He could see that, and it made him sad. This woman knew she could attract just about any man. It wasn’t just that she was Vivian’s daughter, and beautiful for it. It was more than that. She was so smart she could be whatever kind of woman a man desired or needed. She could be an art professor on sabbatical, taking care of her elderly mom. Or she could be a single mom who danced for men when her kids went to sleep. She could be a jaded housewife who sold cosmetics out of her garage, or a seemingly devout Baptist wife with a gleam in her eye, flirting with the devil himself.

He watched them for a half hour or more. During that time, something had turned. It might have been that one moment, when her boss leaned heavily against her body and whispered something in her ear. Something crude, maybe. Something hard, or nasty. Too nasty. He saw her face darken, and there was something like fear there, on her forehead, in her eyes. As if she were trapped. But, then, how do you walk out on your job? How do you walk out on your job with two little children at home? How would you cry foul in a place like this?

He stood from the bar, walked beside its battered mahogany curve. Hey, Melissa, he called. Hey. It’s Charlie.

At first, she seemed afraid of him too. Or perhaps just startled. Then simply a look of resignation that she could hardly ignore him. Setting the empty beer glass down behind a wall, she touched the man’s shoulder and walked slowly towards Charlie.

What are you doing here? she asked without any particular drama. Like this was an inevitable coincidence. Fated in a place this small.

He shrugged his shoulders, shot the man a look. You know. Just out here living my best life, right? he said. Good old Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin.

Yeah? How long have you been here?

Long enough to see that some asshole may be bothering you.

She leaned closer to him, whispered, He also happens to be the owner.

Doesn’t matter, he said, in a low voice. You don’t need this place. C’mon, Melissa. Let me take you home.

It does matter, actually, she whispered. He pays, very, very well.

I don’t care how much he pays you. You don’t have to take that.

Yeah, well, I think I do, she said. She leaned closer. That’s part of what he pays for.

She pushed back from the bar and crossed her arms, shot him a look. A look that begged confidentiality. A look that said, Please, don’t make me say anything more. Just forget this place. Erase it. And don’t ever come back here.

Are you sure? he asked. Are you safe?

I’m fine, she said. Go away, okay? Please. This is really not a big deal.

She walked away and then, as if tied to the bar by an invisible cord, she turned and came back.

But listen, thanks. For checking on me, I mean. She rapped a knuckle against the bar. Honestly, I’m fine.

Okay, he said. Nuff said.

He drove home feeling heavy. Not at all feeling lighter, or more relaxed. Each mile its own tedium, and he felt guiltier and guiltier the farther away he drove.