A Maraschino Cherry

A sixteen ounce cup of coffee costs $1.49 at the Greyhound bus terminal in Denver Colorado.  It is served in a Styrofoam cup with a flat plastic lid, where you have to tear the little tab and drink through a sloppy hole, but at least it is fresh.  As I sipped blearily, meditating on dawn over a gray urban landscape, a day and a half way to my destination, a bank of game machines carried on the war, noisily, uninterrupted by human players.  A foretaste of things to come?

There are few ways to wake up more uncomfortable than having napped a half hour on an all-night bus ride across the plains.  The fact that it happens a dozen times in a handful of hours doesn’t seem refreshing.  I stared at the polished composite floor, and it occurred to me that I would like to lie down, if only for a moment, but I did not.  My mood was not bright.  I kept thinking of how the receptionist in the emergency room of St. Luke’s hospital kept us waiting on a floor made of polished pebbles in concrete just like that, and she wouldn’t let my friend lie down on it even though he was dying.  Cheerful stuff.

A little running toddler, wide awake and full of fun, runs up to the machine and grabs the steering wheel, gives it a sharp turn.  “I do this mommy,” he calls to a young woman who has headphones and a goiter.  She smiles a little but not much, for the room is crowded with idle men.  Can’t be too careful.  A slight smile might attract unwanted attention.  “I do this,” the boy yells again, then runs to her to beg a quarter.  Smart kid.  How does he know it needs a quarter, at his age, already experienced at juke machines?  She does not give him the coin, but he is off on a race around the naked wire tables near the vending machines, having already forgotten about the video game.  The war goes on noisily, without him.

Last night’s woman marches archly through the room, towing her man who is grim in a black fur coat and a red cap.  No trouble spotting that guy in a crowd.  You already have learned they are going to Las Vegas, honey, and then to the All-Stars.

“You gonna have a good time,” you tell her as she takes the stool next to you at the coffee counter. 

“You know that’s right,” she laughs, leaning in to press you shoulder to shoulder.  A nice touch, you lean into her, just enough to let her know you like it.  A sideways glance tells you she is made up fine, five forty-eight in the morning, sky blue eye shadow fresh on creaseless lids.  She replies to that by nodding forward to loosen the tension on the low neckline of her chocolate satin blouse.  Your eyes naturally fall where she wants them, and she laughs indulgently, having caught you looking.  She touches your forearm, resting her long brown fingers with their hard manicured luscious Ferrari red fingernails.  The waitress saves you from the woman of the moment with a chocolate sundae, the only thing on the menu that seemed to fit the venue and the ambiance.  Dark syrup drizzled over vanilla ice cream.  “MMM, that looks good,” last night’s woman of the blue eye shadow and red nails says, having become this morning’s woman too.  But she leans back away from it as if it were a dangerous object.

“You want a bite?” You offer her the decadent tulip glass, nudging it toward her with a knuckle, but she doesn’t have a spoon.  Her red cap has one, though.  He used it to stir three creams and five sugars into his coffee before he went to the men’s room.  “Go ahead,” you say.  “You can use that spoon.  I bet he won’t mind.”

“No, I shouldn’t.”  She pulls in her chin to frown but delicately picks up the spoon, which is stuck to the napkin but comes off easy enough.

“Sure you can.  Why not?”

“Well, just a little taste….”  She dips the edge of the spoon into the syrup and melting cream, which swirls, then lifts it, waiting for the inevitable drip.

“Go on now, it’s ok.  Get a good spoonful.”  She suddenly grins like school girl and she plunges the spoon in to a hunk of chocolate covered vanilla ice cream.  Her eyes light up with child-like guilt and glee as she takes the taste…

“Mmmm,” she hums, frowning a pout with her little finger at the corner of her classic ruby lips to save her lipstick.  “My, that is good!”

“Yeah?”  She nods enthusiastically, rolling her tongue and eyes sweetly, remembering what it was like once.  So pleased, you can follow the sensate shiver through to her sphincter as she squirms with pleasure.

You take a clean swipe of the vanilla and dip it in the chocolate sauce and the maraschino cherry slides into the excavation.

“You got to eat that cherry, now,” she admonishes.  The vanilla is smooth and chill, real ice cream from a scoop.  You nod, picking up a stray drip with your paper napkin.

“I’m saving that for last.”  You smile, and she returns your smile, which makes you think of cool sticky kisses.

“That’s right, you got to save that for last,” and your eyes meet hers, and you are reminiscing, and you know what she is thinking with her naughty eyes.

“You want it?  You can have it.”  You turn it toward her.

“Oh no honey that is for you.”  But she is still holding the spoon.

“Go ahead.  It’s alright.”

“No, but I’ll just have another little taste…”  You nudge it toward her and she delicately inserts the shiny tip…”Oh, my…”

Now she puts the spoon down firmly on the napkin but she turns her stool toward you and gives you her full round face attention, both eyes on your mouth.  You spoon up another vanilla chocolate sin and the cherry sinks in the rich brown creamy sauce to the bottom of the glass.

It’s the last spoonful and you lift the cherry in its bed of ice cream and chocolate.  You wonder if you approach her lips, will they open…”

“Can you tie a knot in it?”

Thinking of her teeth and tongue, you miss the cue.  “I don’t know what you mean.”

“In the stem,” she comes back quickly.  “Can you tie a knot in it, with your tongue?”

It’s a challenge.

“I can do that.”

“Let me see.”

You look at her lipstick smile and you know you have already lost.  Her eyes glitter like a teenager looking out from her clique.  You don’t know if you can do it, but a challenge is a challenge.  “What, is it a prize?”

“No, honey, it’s no prize.  It’s a test.  If you can do it, that means you got good tongue action.”

“Tongue action?  What’s that?”

“You know what I’m saying?”

“I never heard of that.”

She laughs.  “Oh honey, we got to bring you up to date.”  She is looking at you sideways again.  “You can tie a knot in it, that means you got good tongue action.  That means you good with your tongue.  You know what I’m saying.”  She nods, self-affirming.

“Now I got to do it.  I’m proud on that.”  She laughs a good laugh and you like to hear her laugh.

“You proud on that?”

“Yeah.”

She laughs again, and you like watching her laugh, too.  She will laugh again later when she tells this to her girlfriends.  “Well it’s a test, you know.  You can test yourself on it.”

You try and try, knowing you look as ridiculous as a wine taster tasting a wine that has gone subtly sour.  She watches you, but in the end, she is disappointed.  You can’t do it.  Finally the stem all but dissolves against your teeth.

Her red cap has come back from the bathroom, and the bus driver has finished eating his breakfast and is paying his bill.  It is soon time to go. 

You feel a little sad, but she touches your shoulder as she gets up. “It’s ok, honey,” she says.  “You can buy you a whole jar of maraschinos when you get home, and practice all you want.”  And she walks away, and you want to watch, but her man in the red cap and black fur coat follows close behind, and covers her.