Kalli

She inhales sharply, deeply, abruptly. Desperately, as if I had been holding her head under water. In a way, maybe I have been. I imagine the smoke rushing into her lungs, flooding the last chamber of an abused submarine. The pause stretches out before us like footprints on the beach of last night’s lovers. Kalli flicks the ashes into the matted carpet, not caring, never lifting her gaze from the toe of one scuffed black Doc Marten.

“You leavin’?” Her voice is gravely, 15 years of whiskey and cigarettes. A woman born to sing the blues…if she hadn’t been swallowed by the rave scene. Hadn’t been such a greasy punk.

My gaze flickers around the apartment. Vinyl records spill from stacks against the wall. The tattered rug has more holes burnt in it than remains intact. Mysterious stains mar a mural of lovelorn graffiti, graphic depictions of fingers and lipstick and cunts, five different meanings of the word fuck. How many times have I fucked her against these walls, forcing my way higher, cupping wiry thighs and shoving.

Kalli is still intent on her boots. I examine the way her calves erupt from the leather, wrapped in fishnets, twining their way up into another leather sheath. Her skirt does not quite cover the fleshy curve at the base of her ass; I strain to catch a better glimpse.

* * *

“Fuck me! FUCK ME!” she screams. I crush my lips into hers, steering her jaw with the hand at her throat. Blood runs through my teeth; I can’t tell if it’s mine or hers. It tastes like pennies, swirling into the bitterness of the MDMA.

“Yeah? Yeah?!? You like that, slut? Huh?! Tell me what you want!”

I’m slammed against the wall. The tables have turned. Frantically, hungrily, she slavers down the front of my body, tearing my belt off, making quick work of my jeans. She’s got a bottle of whiskey in one hand, her tongue on my clit. Her arm is a bar across my ribs, pinning me back; I am enveloped in the heat and the wet.

* * *

“I oughta.” I lean over and grab the pack. With nimble fingers I open a paper, sprinkle the ground weed, roll it up quick. Kalli finally raises her eyes. I am caught in their green fire; the heat rushes to my face. I try to be casual but I stumble, painfully aware of her gaze on my lips.

“I love the way you lick that spliff.” A cat purring as it tosses the mouse.

* * *

Our eye contact doesn’t waver. Slowly she leans over, puts the straw to her nose. The line disappears, replaced by a Cheshire-cat, sexual smile hovering above where it used to be. She holds out the straw and I shake my head. I pull a bill out of my pocket and twirl it into a tube as I saunter over. I stand directly behind her; she doesn’t move. I lean over and place one hand on her breast, I-do-swear-Your-Honour, and as the powder flies straight to the dome all I can feel is her ass throbbing into my groin.

* * *

I’m caught off-balance. Of course. It isn’t like Kalli to cry, to beg. She needs to have the upper hand, to mess with my head, to turn me on. To make me want her. I might be the one to walk out of here today, but goddamn if she’ll let me leave without regrets.

“I’m not playin’ this game anymore. You got fired from the art gallery – ”

“Kicked out of the collective,” she amended.

“ – and I’ve been payin’ for all our shit for months now! You haven’t even been trying; all you do is rail junk and blaze. The only bill that hasn’t gone up is the groceries! – because you don’t eat!”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. I was going to stay so calm and collected. Casual like. Stoic. I was gonna saunter away, unbothered, unaffected. Dispassionately.

* * *

Passion Has Red Lips, By Some Young Punks. That was the name of the bottle of wine that we drank on our first real date. Kalli’s special skill is getting people bothered in all kinds of ways. That bottle cost $50, and I assure you that ever since then we’ve been rocking Cape Breton shine, Colt 45s and Baby Duck. But that first night, it was different. It seemed different. We were playing at being something else. The coke was so pure, and I still remember the way the sequins shimmered on her dress. She was like Audrey Hepburn, evening gown and pearls, talons painted, clutching crystal goblet and extra-slim cigarettes.

I had gone on a tour of a local artist-run centre. It was operating out of the tunnels below downtown, heavily influenced by Montreal death glam, junk installations, and Alice in Wonderland. Seven bottles of hand sanitizer lined the gnome-height cobblestone wall. One was labelled Panic, one Ennui, one Doubt, one Fear. The day that I met her she showed me that exhibit. Then we got drunk on Shame

and she washed away Regret.

* * *

“You have a black heart. I don’t know what your problem is.” The bass cuts back in, Kalli’s prized Lesbians on Ecstasy record impeccably keeping score with the nuances of our conversation. The vibrations mitigate what would otherwise be an oppressive silence between us, rattling the sticky glasses and stickier bongs. Kalli picks up her glass and holds it against the light. We don’t use the cheap fluorescent office lights that came with the apartment; instead, a disco ball slowly turns, casting multi-coloured rhombuses in splatter format across the room. Red, blue, green, and purple dance through the amber liquid in her cup.

“Scotch?” She offers me her prize.



________________________________________

Note: The concept of the hand sanitizer bottles is based on a real art exhibit by artist Andrew McPhail. McPhail's exhibit includes five bottles of hand sanitizer, respectively labeled Regret, Loss, Anger, Dread, and Ennui.