Yellow Mama E zine

LUKEWARM

 

by Z. T. Fairfax

 

 

        Sin bubbled on my lips like soda pop. The delicious kind of pain you crave, anticipating the bitter aftertaste of regret.

        The store I walked past every Sunday on my way home from church didn’t smell like warm cinnamon or blind passersby with flashing neon X’s. But all the same, it stirred conviction in my chest that veered dangerously close to desire.

        Kissing before marriage was forgivable. I wasn’t having sex, or as Father Grigsby called it, giving a part of yourself to someone you can’t take back—his fat tongue sweeping sweat from his upper lip as he said it.

        Momentary goodness replaced by hollowness. But when would the hollow arrive?

        I’d never been kissed. The silicone wasn’t salty or acrid, like sin was supposed to be. It was sweet and lukewarm, sending shockwaves of heat through my body, starting at my lips and shooting through to my fingernails.

        Sin wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

        “Was that gesture to your satisfaction? Or would you like to try kissing my top lip?” The Synthia’s response was as conflicting as the kiss itself. Warm yet cold. The parasocial sting threatened to flatten the bubbles on my lips.

         My hands trembled. Of course, I wanted to try again. But it was wrong. She—it wasn’t even human, but something inside my chest fizzed and rose, desperate to overflow.

         Shake me, please!

         The Synthia stared blankly, awaiting my response. Yes. No. Kiss me like you meant it. It didn’t matter what I said. It would complete the task in whatever way it thought best.

         That thing inside me—desires of the flesh—went flat. With every new prompt I conjured, the fizz weakened.

         I wanted to explain myself to it—her. How the window display stuck with me longer than the sermons. If she could feel, she’d think I was pathetic. Besides, she seemed perfectly fine with me hurling my lust at her. I didn’t know her name, or if she had one.

         Grigsby’s words rattled in my head, echoing through my shaking body.

         The Synthia smiled—kind and patient. “Even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.” But she only did what I asked. She had no control over me, outside of her bewitching kiss. My shaking stopped.

         I waved my hand in front of her face the way the salesperson taught me. Her eyes closed. Her chin fell to her chest, powering off.

        Here it comes. The hollow. The spiritual reminder that I had fallen short.

         But it never came.

          A light glinted off the glossy residue I left on her lips. That reflection shook me like a bottle, and the fizz surged back through me. If this was wrong . . . God, I didn’t want to be right.

 

 

       Z. T. Fairfax is a speculative fiction writer from Kentucky. His work has appeared in Flare. He is represented by Amy Stern of The Sheldon Fogelman Agency for his YA horror novels.

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          Bernice Holtzman’s paintings and collages have appeared in shows at various venues in Manhattan, including the Back Fence in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s Club, the Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she can’t remember, but it was in a basement, and she was well received. She is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow Mama.