The Kissing Booth Girl and Other Stories

by A. C. Wise

  The muscles between Ro’s shoulder blades tense, waiting for Audra to ask what an Immie was doing outside the Zone. But the question doesn’t come, and Ro swallows guilt at putting venom in Audra’s mouth before continuing.

  “Xal was hurt and…accidentally touched me.”

  Audra’s eyes widen. Small fingers of panic tap at Ro’s ribs from the inside. Xal’s tone-statements make things so much simpler. With Audra, Ro is lost. Is she jealous? Angry?

  At last year’s office holiday party, Audra drunkenly tried to kiss Ro. They had only known each other a short time, and so it was Ro who mumbled apologies and made the effort to explain.

  It’s not you, it’s me. I’m not…. I don’t really date. I don’t like… And there, the explanation faltered. Because what could Ro say that Audra would understand? Audra was wholly comfortable in her skin, more so than anyone Ro had ever met. She dated men and women in equal numbers; affection—casual and intimate—came to her as naturally as breath. She drank the world in through her fingertips and remained thirsty for more.

  So how could Ro explain a hatred of touch, of flesh? The discomfort of even having a body, let alone one identifying with a single, narrow gender and responding to others sexually?

  How could Ro explain it then? How can Ro explain it now? How that night Ro hadn’t fled, but had remained horrified. How this night Ro had fled, but wasn’t disgusted.

  Audra shakes her head. Amazement? Ro still can’t tell. Xal’s touch was accidental; would emphasizing that help? Audra has been kind, understanding; Ro doesn’t want to see Audra hurt, but the gulf between them is so vast.

  Audra wraps her hands around her mug. Steam rises between them. She does not look at Ro.

  “So what happened?”

  “It tasted like lemons. And it was like being somewhere else.”

  “Xal tasted like lemons?”

  “No. I mean. I don’t know. Haven’t you ever smelled something and had the taste hit you at the same time? I’m explaining it badly.”

  “No.” Audra draws the word out. She looks at her hands, her expression guarded, like she wants to say more, but silence stretches between them.

  Ro feels a pang of guilt, threaded with a flutter of panic, imagining Audra wants to put her hand over Ro’s. A comforting gesture; it’s what Audra would do if she was sitting with anyone else. Ro has seen it, the way Audra leans into their other co-workers—a nudge from her hip to emphasize a joke, a sympathetic hand on an arm, a head comfortably resting on a shoulder. Even when it isn’t sexual, Audra is so casual with her body; Ro can’t begin to understand it.

  “I have to go back for my messenger bag,” Ro says, abrupt, standing.

  “But…” Hurt flickers in Audra’s eyes, this time unmistakable.

  “I’m sorry,” Ro says.

  It feels like fleeing again. The phantom of Xal’s touch lingers, but it doesn’t have half the weight of Audra’s gaze. Still, Ro rubs the spot again, pushing out the door. A light drizzle mists the air. Hairs rise on Ro’s arm, catching the moisture. Ro rubs harder, half expecting to see translucence and hollow bones like glass—flesh both there and not there in the aftermath of Xal’s touch.

  Instead of going back to the Zone, Ro goes home, climbing three flights to a small apartment, boots heavy on each step. Guilt prickles, and with it, something else. Curiosity.

  Ro crosses to the window, touching the glass. It’s cool, and condensation forms a halo in the shape of a hand. When she draws away, there is a space left—defined by the imprint of four fingers, a palm, a thumb. And in the place of flesh, droplets of water cling to the window, heavy with the light and shimmering like stars.

  Nerves flutter in Ro’s stomach. The memory of rain glistens on the bike, still chained at the Zone’s entrance. Ro brushes fingertips over the metal frame in passing. Never has the walk to Xal’s shop seemed longer. Never has the jigsaw of uneven pavement, brick, and stone seemed such an impediment.

  Ro tries to think of anything written or said about physical contact between humans and Immies, but comes up empty. If it’s done, it’s a private thing. Does everyone taste lemons, feel the snap of electricity? The Immie community is so small. Maybe Ro is the first, the only one.

  But who is there to ask? The other couriers don’t travel into the Zone. Scarcely any humans do. Ro has never seen another human walking the shattered streets. Which makes the kitschy human ornaments crowding the walls in Xal’s shop even sadder.

  Ro pauses, wondering if Xal has ever made a sale, if the shipments Ro regularly delivers ever leave the shop again, or only sit there gathering dust.

  Why, Ro wonders. Aliens came to their world. Shouldn’t people be excited, curious? But they don’t seem to be. It’s not fear exactly, but more a way of not seeing, Ro supposes. Turning a blind eye to what is inconvenient, uncomfortable. Like the government pretending the Zone is only temporary. Like the refugee camps that never empty. Like racial tension, poverty, homophobia. If the problem is ignored long enough, perhaps it will simply go away.

  Ro pauses before pushing open Xal’s door; the bell jangles. The courier bag, now empty, waits on the counter. And Xal waits behind it, limbs no longer bunched in pain, but held inward, careful, betraying tension. Ro’s throat is dry; it takes a moment to get the words out.

  “How are you feeling?”

  There’s no sign of the wound. Ro can’t tell whether it’s healed completely, or whether Xal is simply hiding it. Limbs fold and unfold, a rippling effect unsettling the first time Ro saw it. Now it’s almost comforting.

  Today, Xal is gray-green, but with shades of violet. Ro thinks of sea anemones, rocks grown over with lichen, algae stirred by gentle waves.

  ::Tone—Relief/Query: Unhurt, now. Are you well.::

  Ro nods.

  “I’m sorry for running out yesterday. It’s just…” Trying to explain things to Audra was awkward enough. They share common language, context.

  “I forgot my bag.” Ro points; it is a cowardly change of subject, but safer ground.

  Ro touches the bag, but makes no move toward the door. Xal seems watchful, even without visible eyes. But what else? Hurt? Confused? Ro is suddenly aware of standing stiff, one arm crossed to hold the opposite elbow, lips parted as if to speak. Flesh again—bodies speaking a language Ro can’t understand. It’s all so useless. So…

  “I want you to touch me again.” The words come in a rush too quick for regret. Heat suffuses cheeks, another betrayal, and Ro almost flees.

  But the shop bell stays silent. Ro’s boots remain planted on the floor.

  “I mean if…it didn’t hurt you? If…if it’s okay.”

  Pulse beats under jawline, at wrists and elbows. Xal furls and unfurls, the there and not-there-ness coming across as deliberation, physically rolling and weighing the request.

  ::Tone—Hesitation/Query: It does not hurt. Why do you want this.::

  “I don’t know.”

  It’s the most honest answer Ro can give. A paradox blooms, a strange, fractal bruise centered at the site of Xal’s last touch. It spreads outward, rewriting Ro’s hardwired code. Ro wants this. No, Ro needs this.

  “What was it like for you?” Ro’s eyes slide closed; it’s easier to speak this way, even if it means having to ignore the extra weight of tears just starting to frost lashes. “I don’t want to impose, is what I mean. I don’t normally like… But this was different. I tasted lemons.”

  The ache is physical—a desire to step off the edge, precisely because it is unsafe, unknown. There are blank spaces defined by broken buildings, by the ghost of a handprint. They are defined by lack—not by something missing precisely, simply by something not there. They are possibility, made manifest.

  In that brief moment, Ro had the sense of Xal’s touch being like the ideal of falling into the night sky, being weightless and rushing so fast between stars their light draws blood. That paradox bruising Ro’s skin—the contradiction of making the unknown known and erasing the infinite possibili
ty—is too attractive.

  “I can’t explain.” Ro’s throat aches around the inadequacy of words.

  A heartbeat. A space of silence. Eyes open. Ro consciously remembers to breathe. Xal is watchful, even without eyes. There is the same sense of consideration in the roiling movements, colors flickering, limbs furling and unfurling.

  ::Tone—Statement/Uncertainty: It is curious. No other humans come here. To touch would be to know more.::

  Ro lets out a rush of breath.

  “You’re sure?”

  ::Tone—Anticipation/Fear: The store is closed.::

  At first, Ro doesn’t understand. Then Xal touches a switch and the lights dim, leaving only the faint glow of emergency lighting. Understanding crashes in: This is agreement, consent. Xal is giving them privacy.

  ::Tone—Anticipation/Fear: Ro. Put your arm on the counter.::

  Ro hesitates only a moment, breathes out, then rests both arms, wrist up, on the glass. In the dimness, Xal is both easier and harder to see. Red light from the emergency-exit sign traces contours and makes flesh the color of water over gray-green stone glow.

  Ro tries not to flinch, pressing arms against the countertop to keep from shaking. Xal’s…arm? Leg? Is there a human word for it? Extends slowly, waits the space of a heartbeat, then surrounds Ro’s flesh, passing through and into it.

  The shop tilts. A scent like violets and seaweed, like gunpowder, fills the air. There is no weight to Xal’s touch, yet pressure builds in Ro’s bones. A sense of fullness pushing outward, but without pain.

  Xal flickers, slow, slow, fast, slow, unfolding, folding, turning. There and not there. Ro feels it too, absent and present, within the shop and elsewhere. An elsewhere that cannot be described.

  Part of Ro reaches for something to anchor to in the here and now—long division, the names of past presidents, a list of capital cities. The larger part spins outward, spiraling from a weightless center, out through rings of stars, arms flung wide against the dark. Fragments of unknown worlds tumble past. Everything is vast and Ro is small and for a moment the sense of it is crushing.

  “No.” Ro jerks back, the word slipping out.

  ::Tone—Query/Concern: Ro. Are you hurt.::

  Xal’s shop snaps back into focus. Ro crashes back into a body too small to hold the sense of stars, and their loss is just as terrible as their presence.

  “I’m…” A ragged breath. Ro places a hand over the skin Xal touched; it is solid, real. Colors ripple across Xal, the salt-scent in the room intensifying.

  ::Tone—Shame/Sincerity: Apologies. I did not mean to cause pain.::

  “No. You didn’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

  Under the salt-scent, the smell of violets and gunpowder. Ro’s flesh prickles, as though swept by a cool breeze; the hairs rise. A sense of pressure, reaching, but never quite arriving, haunts the space between Ro’s bones. It isn’t desire—that’s too simple a word, too human. But there is wanting, need unfulfilled.

  “I want to try again. Please.”

  ::Tone—Statement/Confusion: You were hurt.::

  “No. It didn’t hurt. I was just scared. But I want to try again.” Ro’s pulse thumps, arms trembling as they are pressed against the counter once more. “Please?”

  Color and movement speak doubt as they roll across Xal’s flesh—storm clouds, and the scent of oncoming rain. Dust—Ro can almost taste it. The same doubt fills Ro, but it can’t end here. Ro reaches after something to keep the moment from slipping away, and lands on Xal’s curiosity.

  “What did you feel?”

  ::Tone—Statement/Uncertainty: Sunlight. A plank of wood. Many planks of wood. Water. Sunlight on water. The sensation of limbs in water. Smoke and charcoal.::

  Hesitation between Xal’s words, searching for concepts to capture such simple, human things. The memory comes rushing back to Ro, sitting on a dock at the lake, toes trailing in the water, a grown-up grilling hot dogs in the background and the air filling with shrieks as other children dove and splashed in the water. A slice of childhood, pulled through Ro’s skin and transferred into Xal’s mind through touch.

  “You saw my memories?”

  More hesitation, then, ::Tone—Agreement/Affirmative: Yes.::

  The information makes Ro’s head swim. Could it work both ways? An alien childhood, if there is even such a thing, slipping into Ro’s skin. There’s so much Ro doesn’t know about Xal, about the Immies in general. The need to know is overwhelming.

  Ro looks to where Xal’s eyes would be on a human, trying to communicate need. The absence of Xal’s touch is a pressure as great as the touch itself. It’s only a matter of quality, of flavor—not better, or worse, just different.

  Xal reaches out again. A sigh, a musical tone so unlike the sound of pain from the night before traces the length of Ro’s spine, the curve of Ro’s jaw. Touch.

  A needle, a thread draws through Ro’s skin, stitching it with the light of the universe. The taste of bitter greens, the feel of velvet, the scent of woodsmoke. Ro’s mind substituting human concepts for unimaginable things. Nebulae bloom against Ro’s closed eyes.

  “Oh.” The word escapes in a breath. Language and thought failing. Space simultaneously narrows to the point of contact between them, and expands beyond calculation.

  “Oh.” There are no other words. “Oh.”

  Again and again as the world spins away from them and Ro flies and falls.

  “Hey.”

  Ro turns toward Audra’s voice, still holding the coffee pot. The scent of it, just on the edge of burnt, fills the small courier office above the shed where their bikes are racked.

  “Careful. You’re going to spill.” Audra points, and Ro starts, realizing the coffee is perilously close to the edge of the mug.

  Even before the first sip, Ro is shaky, nerves taut and singing.

  “Sorry.” Ro replaces the coffee pot, sips scalding heat.

  “Are you okay?” Audra frowns. “You look exhausted.”

  Ro doesn’t remember returning to the apartment last night, only waking in a tangle of sheets this morning, eyelids sticky, limbs heavy. The world keeps wanting to slide away; the edges of Ro’s vision glimmer with light, like a migraine coming on, only without pain.

  “Any new jobs come in since yesterday?” Ro asks instead of answering Audra’s question.

  Even seen peripherally, Audra’s concern is clear. There are no mirrors in Ro’s apartment, but Ro imagines the shadow-bruises of sleeplessness, improperly combed hair.

  “A few.” Audra hands over the clipboard before pouring her own mug of coffee. Her knuckles are white, gripping the handle. It is a gesture of restraint; Ro has seen it before. If Audra doesn’t anchor herself to her mug, she will reach out a comforting hand to touch Ro’s arm.

  Evasion tastes as sour as a lie. Audra only wants to help, but what can Ro say? Audra might understand, but she might as easily be hurt. She might think Ro is sick, wrong for wanting this inexplicable thing, and that would be unbearable. It’s not that kind of desire, but it’s too hard to explain. There are no words for what it is, at least none that Ro knows.

  “Mind if I take the Thayer Street drop?” Ro’s voice cracks.

  The sound is covered with more sips of coffee—too quick. The heat doesn’t help the flush coming to Ro’s cheeks. The truth must be written everywhere on Ro’s skin, the evidence of Xal wrapped around and through, highlighting the translucence of bones, hollowed like glass.

  Ro is clattering down the stairs to the bike shed almost before realizing it.

  “Ro!” Audra follows, and Ro isn’t quick enough—fingers shaking and clumsy—to strap the package to the back of the bike and leave before Audra blocks the door.

  “What happened?”

  Ro doesn’t answer. Can’t. Tears sting, hot and bright, but don’t fall.

  “Ro.” Audra’s voice is soft. She weaves between the bikes, comes within a few inches of Ro, and reaches out. But at the sharp intake of breath, she s
tops, her fingers falling short of brushing Ro’s wrist.

  “Sorry. I forgot.” Audra looks down, then back again. The hope in her eyes is crushing.

  Ro shifts, putting the bike between them, and feels guilty doing so.

  “I went back to see Xal.” Ro swallows, gripping the bike.

  Audra’s eyes widen, drawing light from the gaps where the door of the shed doesn’t quite fit. All the darkness in them reminds Ro of falling through the stars. There is a sound that isn’t quite a sob, and it takes Ro a moment to realize its source.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Ro gives a shake of the head, slight, but easier than words.

  “What happened?”

  Ro’s lips press tight, fighting the sense of being overwhelmed without understanding its source. The loneliness of being trapped in a single body with its weight of flesh—Ro has always known it, but until feeling the alternative offered by Xal, it was bearable. Now the world is open, a wound no amount of thread can stitch closed.

  Audra’s fingers circle Ro’s wrist, insistent this time. Ro’s mouth flies open, but Audra’s grip tightens.

  “Please. I want to understand.”

  The need to touch is written clearly in Audra’s eyes, as clear as Ro’s desire to pull away. Ro lets out a shuddering breath, doesn’t move. Pulse beats between them, in Audra’s fingertips, in Ro’s wrist. Maybe this is a language Audra can read; maybe Ro doesn’t need to say anything at all.

  Audra exhales, letting go, and Ro’s pulse falls back into a regular rhythm. How can Xal’s touch soothe, being so alien, while Audra’s induces only panic? Most of the world would consider it wrong, broken. But Ro knows it isn’t. There is no weight to Xal’s touch, no expectation.

  “I’m sorry,” Ro says, and at the same time, Audra says, “I’m sorry.”

  Breath and silence fills the shed. They look at each other across the bike between them. The light coming through the gap around the door shifts, leaving Audra’s face in shadow, stealing the illusion of stars from her eyes, but catching sylph-like in her dark curls.