Tuesday Blues
By Tammy R. Kitchen
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On Tuesdays, Missy wears everything blue. Pale blue, denim blue, electric blue flashing on her eyelashes. It's her gimme color, her shirt unbuttoned to her lacy blue bra and her jeans riding low on her hips.
Ladies' night at Joe's Bar, Missy sits on the corner stool closest to the door and watches the boys play pool. Here, she's backlit in pink neon blinking through her blonde over-sprayed hair. She leans forward, her legs crossed and her back arched slightly, a chocolate mint martini in her hand and a five dollar bill in her pocket.
The cash is a decoy. A starter she doesn't need anymore because the boys all know her. They toss their tired winks and smiles her way as they lean over the pool table. Missy blows her cigarette smoke up and kisses the air. The boys grin and the hard bass from the jukebox thumps in Missy's toes and knees and in the space between her breasts. The vibration travels down her stomach to the inside of her thighs and she closes her eyes, her breath coming quick, blocking the sound of the boys hollering and slapping each other. Blocking the sound of good time guys with slipping speech and wallets full of single dollar bills.
Tuesdays at Joe's Bar are busy, the bell above the door ringing and the shrill laughter of women looking to take one or two of the boys home. Missy knows them, too, with their clingy shirts and swinging hips. They move their bodies with arousal as the men stare and nod their heads, their lips wet.
It's this that Missy is watching when someone brushes against her back and she jumps. Calvin Klein cologne mixes with the smoke in her lungs and a hand is on her shoulder. Missy turns and sees an arm there, a working man's bicep. It belongs to Jake, a pretty man with young skin and eyes that never wander from Missy's face. Jake who runs his tongue over his bottom lip and never smiles. Jake who trails his fingers down her arm and asks why she always wears blue.
He takes her to the dance floor and pulls her close, her breasts pressed against him and the music moving between them. His legs brush hers as they dance, his hands on her hips, his thumbs rubbing the bare skin just under her shirt. She sees herself with him, then, against the wall of the bar, her legs wrapped around his waist. On the hood of her car in the back parking lot. On a blue couch at the house where she imagines he lives, their hands furious on each other's bodies. She sees herself sleeping beside him and cooking dinner when he comes home tired from roofing all day.
On the dance floor, he pulls closer. His breath is on her face, his erection against her, his eyes pressing. Staring. She sees herself beside him and her stomach tightens and when he leans toward her, she puts her hands on his chest, pushes him back, and runs.
She runs into the restroom with its dim yellow light and she stands in front of the mirror. Hands shaking, she buttons her shirt to the top and yanks at her hair, trying to pull it out of its hairspray mold. The barely-legal girls giggle at her, talking behind their hands, and Missy turns to tell them to mind their own business, to tell them to fuck off, but they're not looking at her at all. They're staring into their own mirrors, a lipstick passing between them as they move with the muffled music and Missy hates Tuesdays at Joe's Bar.
She finds Jake sitting on her stool by the door and she sits beside him, her hand on his arm. His tongue travels across his bottom lip and he looks away. Obscene pink flashes on the bar, on their skin, and the boys laugh with the girls hanging off of them, gripping their arms with promises, and Jake stands and walks out, the bell above the door shrill in Missy's ears. She walks out behind him, the door banging shut, making her jump, and she almost trips in the darkness. Jake walks faster and Missy runs, crying now, her fingers wrapped around his bicep and digging in. At his car door, he stops, keys in the lock, and Missy pushes against him, her breath hard, electric blue mascara running down her cheeks. The lock clicks open and Jake puts his hands on Missy's waist and moves her away from him before he climbs into the car and drives away.
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Tammy R. Kitchen has always lived in the same area in Michigan, but she hopes one day to see other landscapes. Her work has most recently been published in Gator Springs Gazette, Whispers of Wickedness, Zygote in my Coffee, and The Summerset Review. She can be reached at tammyr_k@yahoo.com.
© 2006 Me Three
