it’s unfortunate

by Blake Christian

The woman sensed that the man didn’t feel the blood yet. A dark, warm crimson was leaking onto her cupid’s bow. His mouth yawned open and moved further into hers, then he placed his hand on her waist. She felt his tongue then, too, and all at once the fermented blend of copper and beer was unavoidable.

The woman watched the man pull back and touch a finger to his lip. He was wearing a black utility jacket and had a silver ring on his pointer finger. The man cursed to himself.

The woman was touching her lip too, smiling up at him, but he was turned away towards the street and didn’t see her. It was dark out, and because the buses stopped running at midnight, just a staccato of cabs drove by leaving cartoon-like vestiges of smoke.

It’s really okay, the woman said.

The man turned back to her with a benign expression on his face and a palm cupped beneath his nose. He started laughing then, and she looked at his eyes, which were mostly pupils.

What? she asked.

It’s all over your teeth, he said.

The woman swiped her tongue across the smooth enamel; his blood was tart and tangy and appetizing. She crossed her right foot over the left and slumped back against the brick wall.

Jesus, I’m sorry, he said. We look like the most terrible kissers.

Looking him up and down, the woman replied, please, no one would believe that. You’re too attractive. Impatient though, maybe.

Well, I might have been a little impatient.

 *****

The woman was happy he had bled again. When it happened earlier that night, while they were seated beside each other at the bar, she was charmed by how stoically he handled it. And that she finally had an excuse to touch his arm.

The man had just motioned to the bartender for another round. The woman was drinking Hugo Spritzes, but the bartender set down two cracked-open silver cans. She looked at the man whose face was ambivalent, then the bartender, and said, perfect, thank you.

The man and woman were going back and forth listing words that began with B, a pedantic game she had suggested when they started running out of things to talk about. The man agreed to the game, amused, and downloaded a digital chess clock onto his phone.

Boudoir, she said, as in the style of photography.

I know the word, he said.

Yeah, I’m sure you do.

She clicked the screen to indicate the start of his turn.

He clicked it back. You can’t use that, he said. It’s French.

Right, but it’s used commonly in English. And in the English dictionary.

The man was pressing his hand against his chin in thought, the woman’s knee bouncing anxiously against his outer thigh.

Okay, he said. That’s fine, sure, I’ll accept it.

She clicked the screen, and he brought his hand down to her quad decisively.

Jesus, he said. I can feel how badly you want to win.

This was the first time the man had touched the woman since their initial hug, which was loose and cursory. The woman looked up surprised, met his eyes, and nodded to agree.

Body, he said, taking his hand back.

What?

My word, he said, body.

Oh, right. Um, bone, she said. She was looking behind the bar at the progressing pour of drinks.

Boner, he said.

The woman looked back at him, laughing.

Ah, she said, boner. I forgot you were an intellectual. Do you get a lot of use out of that one in your poetry?

The man clicked the timer, smiling. The woman took a sip of her beer.

Oh, he said. Yeah, my nose is going to bleed.

What? Are you okay?

Yeah, this happens.

The woman handed him a napkin from the bar top and asked again if he was okay.

After a pause, the man said, thanks, yeah. I’m okay, it’s just when it’s cold out.

The man brought the napkin to his nose, and the woman watched in awe. She felt gratified to play even a distant part in the circumstances that triggered something so intrinsically carnal. The woman touched his arm sympathetically and said maybe he should go to the bathroom. He nodded and scooted his chair back from the bar.

Don’t cheat while I’m in there.

No, obviously. Go, she replied.

The man walked to the bathroom and the woman turned her phone over to check the time. They arrived at seven and it was half past nine. Brackish, bond, beer, she thought. Boner, boycott, bell, boner. She took another sip, then picked up the man’s can assessing how much drink he had left. It was notably heavier than her own.

*****

Outside the bar now, the man was dabbing his nose with a bar napkin. The woman had told him to grab an extra when they got the bill, he said he wouldn’t need it, she persisted. She wondered to herself if this was actually an effect of cocaine. His dating profile had the word “sometimes” next to the pill icon.

Did you call your Uber? the man asked, looking toward her again.

I decided to take the train after all, she replied.

Oh, sorry. I would’ve walked you to your stop if I knew. My car is almost here.

Don’t worry about it. It’s just around the corner.

The woman put her hands in her pockets then took them back out in case he wanted to kiss her again. A white car pulled up to the curb and the man announced that it looked like his.

Okay, she said. Text me when you’re home.

You’re the one taking the train. You tell me.

If you insist, the woman replied tilting her head to the side in what she hoped was an ironic and casual way.

The man took his hand from his jacket and leaned in to kiss the woman. The kiss was long and kind and still had hints of iron.

The woman pulled back and smiled.

I managed to keep that one dry, he said.

I know, it’s unfortunate.

The man laughed and walked towards his Uber. I’ll see you, he said out loud, although he was facing away from her and the woman hardly heard it.

Photo of Blake Christian

BIO: Blake Christian is a Queens-based writer. Her fiction has appeared in Lady Bug Literary Magazine. She is currently pursuing an M.A. in English at St. John’s University, where she works at the Writing Center. She is on Instagram @blakehchristian.