The Bodyguard ("Lips" story #72)

LIPS
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother is with her Hindu. They’re at his apartment and he’s trying to kiss her. But she won’t have it. She’s too busy worrying about his brother. She’s not one who likes to worry, but at times like this, what else can you do? He and the brother share this place and she can feel the brother here—even though he isn’t. It’s not just the Safari Cologne and Wild Tiger Hair Gel, it’s the way things are arranged. Her Hindu’s fingers did not put these plants in place on the windowsill or pick out the spices in the spice rack. She knows her Hindu. It’s why she didn’t want to come here. This was her Hindu’s idea. He said they wouldn’t stay any longer than it took to pick up the coupon. Soon they are scheduled to yet again attend the salad place which serves the cajun-style potato skins he seems compelled to eat at least twice a week. After they met up and were arranging their plan for dinner, like always, he needlessly chirped on and on about his meticulously clipped two-for-one coupon to the salad place. Only this time he was shocked to find that it wasn’t on him. He’d forgotten it. Or so he said.

She wanted to believe in this, but she knew her Hindu. She knew he’d wanted to get her inside his place for a long time. So here she is. But she isn’t happy. Certainly it’s all very beautiful and expensive—the kind of place you often saw in magazines, the kind of place you dreamed of as a child, a place blessed with more glass and chrome than you could shake a stick at. But she isn’t happy. She can’t be happy when she’s afraid. And when she’s afraid, the last thing she or anyone would want is a pair of wet, foreign lips abusing her neck.

Which is why the slap happens, why it isn’t her fault, and why she so quickly rushes away afterward without any effort to apologize, explain, or arrange a later rendez-vous over cajun-style potato skins with her hungry Hindu. In her heart she’d felt the brother’s presence, felt his wounded eyes watching them. And she knew that no matter how perfect the apartment might appear, with such a sinister man you could never put the salt and pepper shakers where you wanted. He would always return them to where he thought they belonged.