Screen Kiss

by Ann Roberts

  At the fourth stop, her favorite regular, Bianca, boarded and gave Addy a big hug that made her heart race. She secretly crushed over Bianca, and it was for Bianca that Addy had added the thumb of the oven mitt to her route. Bianca was in her early twenties, a half-Asian and half-Hispanic bombshell who oozed an infectious joy. She always wore brightly colored scrubs with cute designs. Today’s scrubs were Addy’s favorite: sunflower yellow with little dogs wagging their tails.

  After giving Addy her usual hug and swiping her bus pass, she waved to everyone and shouted, “Good morning!”

  The other regulars replied, “Good morning, Bianca!” and even the few newbies cracked a smile.

  She turned to Addy and said, “I know it’s early in the morning, but happy birthday, Addy!”

  The whole bus cheered and Addy felt her cheeks burning. She held up her hand and nodded.

  “Who wants a popsicle?” Bianca shouted, holding up a grocery bag full of treats. She gave Addy a cherry one and proceeded down the aisle, handing out popsicles to all the passengers. She exclaimed, “It’s a great day!” several times and everyone agreed.

  And it was a good day whenever Bianca was on the bus. She made it better for everyone else, which was part of the reason Addy was willing to break the rules for her. Addy glanced up at the mirror and watched her slide next to Mrs. Jones, another regular who was on her way to the farmers market. Soon Bianca was laughing, and Addy couldn’t help but smile.

  She wished Bianca would notice her more—beyond her role as nice bus driver. While Bianca wasn’t really Addy’s type either, her personality was magnetic. Addy had never met anyone more beautiful on the inside. Bianca was cute. Addy just wished she had bigger boobs. Granted, they weren’t that small. It wasn’t like her scrubs top lay flat against her chest. There was a little contour.

  But Bianca’s chest was nothing like Nurse Segal’s.

  Addy injures herself on a rusty nail and goes to the emergency room. Her eyes nearly pop out of her head when Nurse Segal sashays through the curtain, her breasts practically entering the room before the rest of her. Her long, brownish-blond hair harkens back to the sixties, the ends curl around her head. She reaches for Addy’s chart and asks, “Do you go by something less formal than Addison?”

  “Addy,” she replies.

  “Cool name.”

  She moves about the small triage room, bending over for gloves, opening drawers, and reaching for the sphygmomanometer. It’s during this fluid movement that Addy realizes Nurse Segal isn’t wearing a bra. Her chest sways left to right, and when she plops onto the stool beside Addy, her boobs give an enormous jiggle. For a moment Addy pictures Nurse Segal hula-hooping.

  “Your blood pressure is high,” Nurse Segal observes. “Are you nervous? Stressed about something?”

  “No,” Addy whispers. I’m just picturing your hips gyrating in one direction while your boobs jiggle in the other.

  “Let me listen to your heart,” she says, rising from the stool and moving closer.

  As she places the stethoscope against Addy’s chest, her breasts graze Addy’s cheek. She smells of lavender, Addy’s favorite. Addy takes a deep breath and rests her face in Nurse Segal’s cleavage.

  Nurse Segal whimpers. “I’m not getting an accurate reading.”

  “I am.”

  She reaches underneath her scrub top and cups her breasts, pushing them up through the V and feasting on her glorious nipples. Nurse Segal abandons the stethoscope and grabs the examining table stirrups for support. Addy’s hands rake over her muscular abdomen, headed for the vulnerable drawstring that secures her scrub pants at her waist. One tug and the little bow unravels.

  “Yes,” Nurse Segal cries, a look of anticipation on her face.

  Addy pulls off her top, and the willing nurse hops onto the exam table, lays back and plants her feet in the stirrups. “I’m ready for my exam, Dr. Addy.”

  She swings her legs wide open, and under the harsh lights of the exam room, every fold of skin is exposed, all leading to her glistening and throbbing center.

  “Please, Dr. Addy!” she moans.

  “Uh-uh,” Addy chides. She lifts Nurse Segal’s right hand, licks two of her perfectly manicured fingers, and places them over her clit. “Touch yourself.”

  Nurse Segal complies and Addy massages her thighs, her strokes matching the rhythm of Nurse Segal’s ministrations.

  “I’m going to come without you!” Nurse Segal shouts.

  “We can’t let that happen.”

  Addy strips off her clothes, steps onto the foothold, and lowers herself on top of Nurse Segal. Her tongue slides into Nurse Segal’s mouth, and she places her own throbbing center against Nurse Segal’s clit. They merge and rock. Just before they climax, Addy hears laughter.

  A voice shouts, “It’s about time you lost your virginity!”

  Her gaze shoots to the doorway. Standing there is her mother.

  “Addy? Addy, what are you doing?”

  She blinked and turned to the open bus door. Mazie stood next to her—in front of the Bijou, one of the last stops on Addy’s route. She glanced up at the mirror and saw the bus was quite full, certainly fuller than when she picked up Bianca—who was gone. She wiped her face with her hand. She’d stopped seven more times and made her unauthorized detour to drop Bianca off at the memory care center where she worked—and she had no recollection of it.

  Mazie swiped her pass and touched Addy’s arm. “Are you okay?” she whispered. “When you pulled up and opened the door, I realized I’d left my bus pass in my other purse. I asked you if I could run back upstairs to get it, and when you didn’t say no, I ran back inside. I apologized to you just now, but you kept staring out the window. Like you were in a fugue state.”

  Addy shook her head, hoping to knock her damaged brain parts back into order. “I’m fine,” she said, pulling her arm out of Mazie’s reach. “Please take your seat.”

  Chapter Six

  Mazie thought about Addy throughout the day. She’d behaved so oddly when Mazie boarded the bus. Sitting ramrod straight, her gaze focused on the front windshield, offering no greeting—even when Mazie apologized for screaming at her the night before. But she’d felt violated, knowing someone else had heard her practicing. She asked Addy for her forgiveness, but Addy didn’t reply. Then Mazie realized she had the wrong purse. When she asked Addy if she could wait just a minute, it seemed Addy was ignoring her—and her anger returned. What was it with this woman?

  She knew something was wrong, though, when she reappeared two minutes later with her other bag, and neither the bus—nor Addy—had moved. She called her name three times and Addy finally blinked. Her gaze traveled the length of Mazie’s body, stirring a swirl of butterflies in Mazie’s stomach. There was something about Addy’s eyes…When their gazes met, Addy commanded her to take a seat, but she didn’t sound like Addy. But I don’t really know her, Mazie reminded herself as she wheeled a cart through Costco.

  She’d lucked out finding a job and a place to stay at the Bijou. She’d always loved movies. Her grandmother lived down the block in her childhood town of Louisville, Kentucky, and twice a month on Sundays, Grandma Mazie took her to the weekly double feature. It was the late eighties, and she remembered the first time she saw Die Hard and Rain Man at the enormous Cineplex, but more importantly, she’d seen Heathers at the Louisville Arthouse, a great indie theater that had been a church. That experience hooked her on indie films and charming theaters. Then in 1991, Grandma Mazie took her to see Fried Green Tomatoes— and she saw herself in the Idgy Threadgood character. She came out to her grandma over chocolate shakes after the movie. She was barely fourteen. Her grandmother declared she knew before Mazie even finished uttering the words. Not long after, Grandma crossed over, as her mother liked to say, and in her will she’d left Mazie free admission for a lifetime to the Arthouse for her and a guest.

  Finding the Bijou was destiny. Almondine was charging her practically nothing for rent in the hopes Mazi
e could find the magic formula to save the theater. Independent theaters rarely thrived in the world of multiplexes. After her friend and mentor Larkin suggested she attend Cammon to finish her masters, she put her urban planning skills to work and studied Wilshire Hills. It was an impressive place, a community determined to lock arms against the big box stores, uncontrolled sprawl, and outsiders in general. She concluded the Bijou would’ve failed several years prior in a less supportive town, and she worried her business acumen wouldn’t be sharp enough to prevent it from closing.

  Owning a theater and going to the theater were two different things. She was learning about the role of a “booker,” the person who actually acquired films, and the politics of working with studios, distributors, and competitors. She was still grappling with Box Office Essentials, the software that kept track of their ticket sales, and the digital and streaming systems that showed the movies. Sadly she’d realized the days of movie reels and canisters were long over, and now most movies arrived on a hard drive or were a virtual upload. Mazie imagined technology had saved the studios millions, and she could only wish they would share more profits with the struggling indie art houses.

  Almondine’s previous business manager, a man she referred to only as Toupee, had taken an enormous and completely wasted monthly fee as her “investment advisor.” A B-actress in Hollywood for twenty years, Almondine had been on every long-running television show at least once, which explained why Mazie thought Almondine looked familiar and why the fate of the Bijou was so precarious—Almondine had no business sense. A fact she’d proven that morning when they had met to discuss the Bijou’s state of affairs, and Almondine appeared at Mazie’s door with three square boxes.

  “What’s this?”

  Almondine made a grand sweeping gesture with her hand. “You…information…here,” was all Mazie understood.

  “I thought we agreed to give up the French so we avoided miscommunication,” Mazie reminded her.

  Almondine closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. When Mazie requested Almondine minimize the theatrics, it seemed to cut her in half. She made a fist and stuck it in her mouth, as if she were in agony. Mazie had stopped herself before she rolled her eyes. Once an actress…

  “Yes, I remember,” Almondine whispered. She turned to the boxes. “This is everything I have. Hopefully among the receipts, the memories, the samples, and the real estate papers, you’ll find something useful.”

  Mazie cocked her head. “The samples?”

  “Of course! I kept everything, including the samples presented by vendors seeking a contract with the Bijou. Are you aware there are ten different types of restaurant napkins available in the greater Linn County area?”

  “Uh, no.” She eyed the three boxes and carefully raised the flaps of the first one, afraid of what she would find. Sitting on top was a glossy brochure from a company in California that made theater seats. “Did you use this company?”

  Almondine shook her head. “Their seats weren’t comfortable.”

  “Then why do you still have this brochure?”

  She pursed her lips and looked away. “I’m a bit of a hoarder. I don’t throw things away.”

  Mazie suddenly had a bad feeling. She removed the brochure and uncovered a stack of various receipts—large, small, stapled, tattered. One had actually been folded into a paper airplane. She showed it to Almondine.

  “Toupee was easily distracted,” she explained.

  Mazie gave the box a cursory inspection, noting important items like the Deed of Sale, tax documents, and employee evaluations stuffed between inconsequential detritus: old movie posters, phone messages and résumés—one of which was smudged with jelly and had affixed itself to the cover page of the 2016 Oregon Tax Code.

  She expelled a long breath before she met Almondine’s hopeful expression with one of her own. “Okay, it’s going to take me a while to look through everything. Could I make some folders? I won’t throw anything away without your approval, but I think it would help to group similar information together.”

  “Yes, that does make sense,” Almondine agreed. She touched her temple with her hand. “Please organize this.”

  So Mazie found herself buying legal-and letter-sized manila folders in bulk at Costco, as well as boxes of candy to replenish what she’d trashed—candy that was likely purchased for the Bijou’s opening four years before, but had never sold because Almondine had made everything the same price to accommodate Addy.

  She maneuvered her shopping cart toward the candy aisle. She remembered Addy’s stricken face when Almondine admitted the Bijou was on the edge of financial ruin. Addy had looked lost and terrified. It was obvious the Bijou was very special to her, and Mazie vowed never to see that look again. She would figure out a way to keep the Bijou afloat—and finish her degree in music performance.

  She’d made one request of Almondine. During the off hours when no movies were shown in the smaller second theater, Mazie wanted to practice performing in front of the empty seats. She saw it as the crucial first step. Then she’d imagine people sitting in the chairs. Finally, if Almondine agreed, she’d ask to give a brief performance after a movie ended. She envisioned her first attempt to sing in front of strangers would be a complete disaster. If her rubbery legs managed to walk onto the little stage in front of the movie screen, words would probably fail her. She’d smile and run off. Audience members would shake their respective heads, gather their belongings, and hurry home. Then the next night, she’d try again. And again. She’d try until she could finally sing a song from the first note to the last.

  Only one thing could go wrong: if she couldn’t sing in front of the easygoing Bijou crowd, she’d never be able to perform at Gallagher Hall and earn her degree. Thus, she had concluded that her Bijou singing experiment would be successful if the audience members weren’t cold strangers. She would commit to memory the names of Bijou customers when they paid their admission or bought their concession items with a credit card. She’d hand the card back and say, “Thank you, John, for your patronage.”

  If she overheard conversations where names were used, she’d call those people by their names. In a few weeks, when she sang on the Bijou stage for the first time, she’d know some people in the audience and focus on their (hopefully) pleasant faces.

  She reached the candy aisle and filled the cart with as much as she could manage on the bus. She’d convinced Almondine it was cheaper to purchase candy from Costco than the wholesaler who stocked the big multiplex on the edge of town. The Bijou didn’t buy enough to get the best price, and when she showed Almondine the numbers, Almondine admitted she’d spent more time ogling the candy wholesaler, a woman with bulging biceps.

  Once she paid for the candy, Mazie headed outside. She transferred the folders and the sweet-smelling boxes into the two-wheel cart she’d brought with her and headed to the bus stop. She replayed the moment when Addy had said, “Genius,” in response to her new candy organization. The compliment warmed her, and for a brief second, she imagined wrapping Addy’s skinny body in a bear hug. She’d trace the contour of her jaw, turn her chin toward her lips and offer a gentle, but earnest kiss.

  “Why am I thinking like this?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Mazie jumped and turned toward an older woman sitting in the bus shelter. Her hair was streaked with steel gray, and a set of creases, shaped like matching apostrophes, sat at the corners of her mouth. She smiled broadly and her green eyes danced in amusement. An open book rested in her lap and her right hand gripped a cane.

  “Oh, my apologies,” Mazie said. “I was thinking out loud.”

  The woman’s shoulders rose and fell in laughter. “I do it all the time, dear. Nothing wrong with that. At my age, it’s how I know I’m still alive and can speak coherently.”

  Mazie smiled and joined her on the bench. “I’m…Mazie.” She realized she was still getting used to her new name.

  The woman nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Mazie. I’m Kit.
Forgive me for not shaking your hand, but as an older person, germs seem to take up residence inside my withering carcass. Can’t chance it.”

  “I understand.” Mazie surmised Kit was much older than she looked, a benefit from residing in a damp climate. “Have you lived in Wilshire Hills for a long time?”

  “Most of my life,” she replied. “I left for college but came back as soon as I could.” Her gaze swept from left to right, as if she were surveying the entire town.

  “What was your occupation?”

  “Teacher.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!”

  “Not really,” Kit said. When Mazie shuddered, Kit laughed. “I’m kidding. Best time of my life.”

  Mazie instantly thought of the Bijou and replied, “Oh, that’s a relief. I’d hate to think you spent your entire life doing something you didn’t like.”

  Kit eyed her shrewdly. “That would be a waste, wouldn’t it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She again gazed out into the distance. “Too many people live ‘lives of quiet desperation.’ Thoreau,” she clarified. She paused and asked, “What are you doing in Wilshire Hills?”

  “I’m finishing a music degree at Cammon.”

  “What area?”

  “Vocal performance.”

  Kit’s eyes brightened. “You’re a singer.”