C4 antho - Chamber Four

~162~ The Chamber Four Fiction Anthology
They finish one pitcher, then another. Cold creeps in the
doorway as the place fills up. Darla feeds the jukebox and
pulls Simms to his feet to shuffle with her around the hardwood
floor, lifting his hand from her ass when he starts
clowning. Wyatt backs against the wall, stretches a leg across
the seat, his appetite gone. He notices a woman, thin and
wiry, wearing a leather jacket and sweatpants. She stands
with her back to the glowing woodstove, wine glass in hand.
Her raven hair is thick and bunched, her dark, narrow face
obscured by owlish glasses. Darla steps out of Simms’s grasp
and leans toward her to whisper. When the song ends, they
bring her to the table. “Wyatt,” says Simms with a wink, “this
here’s Mel.”
Wyatt, revived, hears himself introduced as Simms’s lifelong
buddy, a big-shot contractor. He banters with Mel and
buys tequilas all around, and when Simms and Darla rise to
dance again he nudges her from the booth. The floor crowds
quickly, and he slides his hand to the small of her back. She
gives a jerk and mashes against him. “Whoa!” she says,
“Sorry. I’ve been getting a tattoo and it’s still a little tender
back there.”
She grabs his wrist, drops his hand lower. “That side’s
OK,” she says, catching his eye, pressing against him during
the dance, her perfume lingering under his chin after the
music stops.
Wyatt orders another round and pulls Mel into the booth
beside him. He lights a cigarette and shakes the match until
it smokes. When turns to Mel, she’s holding a cigarette and
waiting. His matchbook’s empty.
Darla holds a lighter a cross the table, “Here you go,
Melania,” she says.
“Melania?” Wyatt says, looking her over. “That’s one I
never heard before.”