Will Christopher Baer - Kiss Me, Judas

for Elias McCulloch Baer

one.

I must be dead for there is nothing but blue snow and the furious silence of a gunshot. Two birds crash blindly against the glass surface of a lake. Im cold, religiously cold. The birds burst from the water, their wings like silver. One has a fish twisting in its grip. The other dives again and now I hold my breath. Now the snow has stopped and the sky is endless and white and Im so cold I must have left my body.

I drift down an elevator shaft to the hotel lobby. I see myself walking across a gold carpet. Time is slowed to a crawl and Im looking through a filter but its me. The familiar skull shaved to stubble and the eyes like shadows. The gray skin pulled tight on my face and my hands flashing white as if cut from paper. I wear a black suit and tie and a dirty white shirt. The clothes hang loose, as if borrowed. The truth is I am losing weight. I look like Im dying of cancer. I stop and turn a slow circle. I think Im looking for the bar. The prick of nausea. Someone else is watching me. A woman in a red dress. She sits in a leather armchair, long legs crossed and yellow. She has long black hair streaked with blond. Her lips part slightly and I can see her teeth. I pass behind a marble column and disappear. I slip inside myself again and I can hear the sound of a piano.

I sit at the bar and order vodka.

Vodka how? the man says.

I dont know. With a lemon and some ice.

He brings me a glass. I sip it and feel better. The woman in red sits down beside me. She is younger than I thought. Its been too long since I sat so close to a woman and my first impulse is to move away. I loosen my tie and look at her. She has a scar at the edge of her mouth and disturbing eyes. She doesnt seem to blink. Her body is like a knife. A dull black stone, shaped like a teardrop, dangles from a string of silver in the cold hollow of flesh above her collarbone.

Are you a tourist? she says.

Im not even sure what city this is.

Denver.

Im a salesman.

Thats funny. You look like a cop.

Ive just been released from a mental hospital.

Perfect, she says.

I finish my drink and push it aside. She dips two fingers into the glass and I see her nails are painted blue. She fishes out the twist of lemon and eats the pulp. I turn my head slightly and her face is two inches from mine. She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. I breathe her dead air.

You must be a terrible salesman, she says.

I am.

Do you want to buy me a drink?

Im not dead. Terribly cold but my eyes are open. Im staring directly into a white overhead light and when I close my eyes I still see it, as if the white is burned into my brain. I try to take shallow breaths. Im in a bathtub. Im naked and the tub seems to be filled with glass. I dont think Im bleeding. Im fine, really. The glass is smooth and somehow comforting. Theres a strange tickle down my left side, below the ribs. I want to scratch it but I cant move my arms.

She says her name is Jude.

What are you drinking?

Silly question. Tequila sunrise, she says.

Why is it silly?

Look around. Its island night.

I swivel on my stool. The waitresses are barefoot and wear plastic flowers in their hair. They serve multicolored drinks that sport happy little umbrellas like hats. On the dance floor are belly dancers cut from cardboard. Surf music drones in the distance.

The dancers, I say.

What about them?

Theyre not real.

She laughs. You are clever.

The bartender brings us a glowing pitcher of tequila sunrises and two tall glasses. I drink cautiously from mine. It tastes like childrens vitamins. Jude drinks hers with a straw.

I used to be a dancer, she says. I was thirteen and I wanted to be famous.

How sad.

Dont you want to be famous?

No.

She gazes at me, her mouth crooked.

Theres something wrong with you, she says.

I stare down at my limp body. Wet black hairs against the white skin of my torso. The genitals shrunken as those of a corpse. The scar of a bullet on my left thigh like the mouth of an unborn twin. My knees blue with cold. What I thought was glass is in fact ice, and it has a familiar smell. The trapped air of a hospital, a morgue. Disinfectant or formaldehyde. The ice is red but I dont see a wound.

The tequila is gone and by now I have one hand well up Judes dress. She has swimmers muscles and goose bumps along her thigh and she is so sweet and lovely I might weep.

Do you want to go upstairs?

Oh, yes. I pat my pockets but cant find my key.

Room 411, she says. A key dangles between her blue nails.

Thats my key.

Of course it is.

I try to fondle her in the elevator but she isnt having it.

This is going to cost you two hundred, she says.

The elevator stops at the second floor but no one gets on.

Do you have two hundred?

Im sure I do.

The elevator rises, groaning. She stares at the floor.

Whats wrong with you? she says.

My reflection in the mirrored doors is shadowy, grotesque. I must look like a corpse to her.

Why dont you want to be famous?

Im terrified of crowds.

In the room she drops her purse on the bed. Its square and black, oddly like a doctors bag. It looks heavy. Jude pulls her dress over her head. There is a strange tattoo between her shoulder blades: a third eye, staring at me. I fumble through my wallet and come up with a wad of bills I cant bear to count and a decayed-looking condom. She takes the cash and puts it in her shoe. I try to tear open the condom and she takes it away.