Pity Kiss

He snaked his arm through my open 4Runner window, snagged my shoulder to pull me closer, and kissed me on the cheek. I was too surprised to resist.

I had pulled over when I saw him to find out why he suddenly stopped texting in the middle of negotiating a visit to Habibi with his daughter. Now, twelve days later, face to face, I confronted him. I used to let bad manners slide, but I ain’t havin’ it no mo’. “¿Que pasó?” I asked, and he exhaled, looked away, answered his walkie-talkie, then lied to my face. In Spanish, so I didn’t catch it all, but I’m familiar with the body language.

After he finished his sad story, he kissed me. When I recovered, I put the truck in gear and drove away. Parked, loaded up a marina cart, and proceeded to the women’s bathhouse where I scrubbed the kiss off my face. Then ran three loads of laundry through the hand-crank washer, including two rinses each. Strenuous work, cranking laundry. Heavy and wet.

I am not some desperate old lady whose ego needs appeasing. No. Keep your pity kisses, mister. I’m holding out for passionate ones.