(2)
— Originally published in the Antietam Review (Spring, 1999)
Continued from page (1)
“You like me?” Mary touched his cheek.
Griffin shrugged and grinned, all foolish.
Kerney could hear Griffin’s clothes rustle. He could feel the heat from
Griffin’s body. He could smell Griffin’s musky scent. Looking past Rosie’s ear,
he could see Griffin’s waist and his chest rising above it.
Kerney slid his hand to Rosie’s rump. “Come on, baby, relax. Ain’t going
to hurt you.” He pulled her face to him and kissed her. She submitted
without response. “Shee-it!” He shoved her off his lap. She collided with
Griffin. “What am I supposed to do,” Kerney said, “sweet talk you into bed?
Hey, Mary, come over here.” Mary slithered, sat on his lap, and unbuttoned
his shirt. “That’s more like it.”
Griffin and Rosie stood looking at each other.
“You buy me tea?” Rosie said.
“Want to sit at the bar?”
They receded into the darkness. Griffin was too broad to maneuver easily
among the close-spaced chairs and tables. Rosie moved with brittle grace
before him.
“Let’s go out back,” Kerney said to Mary.
“You pay seven hundred tonight, okay?”
She led Kerney through the smoky curtains. He could barely make out
Griffin talking to Rosie at the bar.
Kerney was hung over the next day, but no worse than usual. His
memories of Griffin from the night before spooked him. He shoved them
aside—he’d gotten into some bad beer or something. As he slurped coffee in
the mess hall, he talked with Diver and waited for his stomach to settle.
Then he caught sight of Griffin in the serving line. Griffin stood taller than
anybody else, his hat tucked into his belt at the small of the back, his blond
hair and the back of his fatigue shirt dark with sweat. As he came out of the
line, he spotted Kerney and grinned. Kerney swore under his breath, stood,
kicked his chair out of the way, and moved to the end of the serving line.
TOM'S TALES