Reed Coleman - They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee

It had begun to snow as I made my way across campus. Once again, Kira Wantanabe was waiting. She didn’t notice me right away, so I stood in the shadows watching the white flakes landing on her lush black hair that fell well below the shoulders of her coat. She was slender as a blade of grass and not much taller than five feet, but she stood strong against the wind. The sharp lines of her calf muscles showed themselves through her thick wool leggings. Under the light, the skin of her triangular face was milky and translucent all at once like the outer layer of a pearl.

When I stepped out of the shadows, we shook hands nervously and for too long. She smiled broadly and then, embarrassed by what it might have said to me, she made it disappear.

“Come on,” she said and led me off campus.

We did not talk. I was glad for that. I felt tongue-tied and awkward and seventeen all over again. I could smell her hair: jasmine blooming in the snow. It was odd that this girl should make me feel alive. It had been a while. My internal voice kept reminding me about Zak and my father and Detective Caliparri, but after several hundred yards all I could hear was our footsteps.

The coffeehouse was downstairs, dark, and smelled like Fazio’s office. There was graffiti and drip paintings on the walls. Some clown in a beret was playing the bongos, snapping his fingers, reciting “Beat lite” poetry. It wasn’t half bad but I was willing to bet he knew the lyrics to Pearl Jam songs far better than he knew Mexico City Blues or Howl. It was kind of fun, but facade. It was a fashion for the college kids to try on and discard like miniskirts or love beads. Next year it would be a disco.

I ordered an Irish coffee. Kira ordered tea. When the waitress left our drinks, Kira pulled something out from her bag and laid it on the table near the candle.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she hid her face, “but could you sign this for me?”

It was a dog-eared copy of my last book-the one I couldn’t sell as a screenplay- They Don’t Play Stickball In Milwaukee. Too hard-boiled for the 90s, the critics said. Too hard-boiled, my ass.

When I hesitated, she panicked a bit. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Please-”

“Don’t be silly,” I said and took her pen.

She read the inscription: “‘Dear Kira, Skin of pearls. Jasmine blooming in the snow.’ It’s beautiful. I don’t understand it, but it’s beautiful.”

“Maybe sometime you will understand.”

She leaned across the table and kissed me on the cheek. “I like the way your beard feels.”

“The kiss didn’t feel too shabby.”

She put the book back in her bag. We ordered more drinks. She had an Irish coffee this time. The waitress carded her. Good thing Kira carried the requisite fake ID. It had been several decades since I’d had a drink with a coed below drinking age. Her attentiveness, enthusiasm, not to mention her physical beauty, all appealed to my vanity. And at forty, my vanity had grown small, weak.

I asked her MacClough’s questions to no avail. She knew more about Jimmy Hoffa’s disappearance than Zak’s. Johnny and I had only been at it for two days, but it was getting to the point where a dead end might’ve seemed encouraging. Kira was good about not asking too many questions I could not or would not answer. She sensed, I guess, my unwillingness to go in that direction.

“I’m an English Literature major, you know.” She was quick to change subjects. “I love writing, but I can’t write. Too much loneliness. Too much looking inside.”

“You know a lot about loneliness, do you?”

“Yes.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “So, what’s it like to be a published author?”

“The fantasy’s a lot better than the reality. Mainly, getting published helps you get in touch with your own obscurity.” She frowned. That wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m out of sorts and lonely. Lonely is okay when I’m home at my desk writing. Here. .”

“I understand.” Kira put her face very close to mine. “Where are you staying?”

“The Old Watermill Inn. Why?”

“Because, Uncle Dylan, there is nothing obscure about you and I want to chase our demons together tonight.”

I had no argument to make that would have convinced either one of us she was wrong.

I lie in the dark listening to the faint hiss of the hotel shower. There is a red-and-yellow neon light flashing through the blinds. I’m up now, an unfiltered Camel dangles from my lips. Reaching into my suit jacket, I come away with a pint bottle wrapped in brown paper. I break the government seal with a twist and take a bracer of the cheap hooch. It goes down smooth as a mouthful of cut glass. I take another swig. The glass is still cut, but the edges aren’t as sharp. I unholyster my.38 and spin the cylinder just because I enjoy the clicking sound it makes. I press my ear against the bathroom door. The shower’s still going. I unclasp her handbag and use the barrel of the.38 to poke around. Never know what a frail might carry in there that’ll jump up and bite you. But this one’s smart. There’s nothing to let me know the real motive for her sharing my bed. The water’s off. I clasp the bag, replace it. I holster my piece and pour some of the liquor into the glass marked with the come-and-get-it silhouette of her painted lips. She steps back into the bedroom, towel wrapped just above her pink nipples. I hand her the glass, saying: “I missed you.”

“Well,” she says, “I had to give you enough time to go through my bag, didn’t I?”

“You’re smart, angel, very smart.”

As she reaches for the glass, the towel falls conveniently to the floor. The smart talk stops there.

Of course, there was no neon sign. There was nothing remotely neon about Riversborough. And though I lay in bed listening to the hiss of the shower, distracting myself with pulp cliches, all I could think about was that slender blade of glass.

She had been remarkably shy, not coy, not virginal. She did not want light. And there in the blackness, we moved slowly. Kira removed my clothes, marking her progress with gentle kisses. There was no clawing, no fury. It was ritual. Her clothes fell away without much urging. I took hold of her at the back of her thighs and pulled her weightless body up along my torso. Her breasts were smallish and firm. I held her nipple between my teeth and used the tip of my tongue to tease it hard. She purred, clutching at the back of my neck, wrapping her legs above my waist. She began to roll the nipple of her other breast between her own fingers.

“Please! Please! Please!” She stiffened, shuddered, shuddered again.

I could feel moisture pouring out of her, meandering through the hair on my abdomen. She released herself and slid down my body washing her orgasm off me with her tongue. She took me into her mouth and I exploded almost immediately. I might have in any case, even without physical encouragement on her part. She braced herself against my thighs, struggling to take it all in. I fell back on the bed and for the first time in a long time, I remembered that the world did spin.

“I knew,” she whispered in the darkness, “that I would love your taste.”

“How long have you known?”

“Later,” she said, “I will show you.”

She crawled up onto the bed next to me. She coaxed my hand onto the sparse, wet hair of her pubis. I massaged her clitoris and as I felt her muscles tense, I slid my finger down hard inside her. Kira clamped her hands around my wrist and held my hand in place until the waves had fully passed. When she relaxed, I pulled my hand up to my mouth and licked her off my finger. She licked, too. I wanted more and moved my mouth along soft skin until I picked up the taste of jasmine mixing with something raw, untamed and mildly bitter.