Free Kiss of Noir by Clara Nipper

night to Ellis, who had parked in back. I watched his taillights speed home to his beautiful, bounteous wife. I got a sharp pain in my chest considering that gentle home life and I cracked open my second beer to wash it away.
    I heard Payne’s music before I saw the car. I rolled my eyes and followed.
    The bar had no name or sign on it. The building, like Fat Mammy’s, was buried in the wilderness. But rows and rows of parked cars glittering in the one pole-mounted light indicated that no one from anywhere in the state had trouble finding it. I marveled at the power of the gay grapevine. Just build a bar and tell one person. By the time you open, there will be a line waiting to get in.
    I parked, got cigarettes, matches, and mints and checked myself and met Payne.
    “This is Marcie’s,” said Payne, who was sharp in a loose white button-down shirt and tight jeans and boots.
    “Nice,” I said, nodding. “Look, we’re twins.”
    Payne looked at me, frowning. “Oh, for God’s sake.” I was surprised at her show of real anger.
    “Hey, I was only joking. Let’s go inside.”
    “No, forget it. You go in, I’ll meet you in there.”
    I spread my arms. “What are you gonna do, go shopping? It doesn’t matter. C’mon, get your sorry ass moving.”
    “I said I’ll meet you in there. Get me a light draft beer.” Payne walked off, muttering and pulling the shirt off over her head.
    I pulled the door open and was assaulted by smoke and music. It was crowded but as I pushed through, I found a tiny, wobbly table in a dark corner away from the speakers but facing the dance floor.
    When the waitress came, I ordered a pitcher of regular draft. Payne wouldn’t know the difference.
    The beer arrived with Payne, who was now clad in a black T-shirt.
    “Now we’re T-shirt twins,” I said, pouring for her.
    “Fuck off.” Payne gulped her drink. “Gimme one of those.” She gestured to the hand-rolled cigarettes.
    “You smoke?” I passed her one.
    “Only when I drink.” Payne clamped it between her teeth. “Light?”
    “Sure.” I flicked my thumbnail across a wooden match head and held it to the fag.
    “You gotta show me how you do all that.” Payne squinted at me through the smoke.
    “All what?” I was beginning to feel very fine.
    “Roll ’em, light ’em, you know.”
    “Sorry, butch trade secret.”
    Payne laughed. She gestured around the bar. “Well, whaddya think?”
    “I have been to a bar before. They’re all the same.” Flashback to a Tulsa Redhead.
    “See anything you like?”
    “Not yet, you?”
    “Sure do. That little filly over there.” Payne pointed to a thin woman with long, dark hair.
    “Mmm,” I grunted. “I guess she’s better than a poke in the eye, but way too skinny.”
    “No, she’s just right. You like the pie wagons, huh?”
    I grinned. “I do hate the sticks. There’s no juice. You eat the meat and leave the bones. The bones are for the vultures. It always strikes me as a bit…necrophiliac to like skinny women. I want a woman that I need a grappling hook to climb. Someone who has the fire to go all night, every night. I love the ample pulchritude that makes a woman a woman.”
    “Uh-huh.” Payne smoked and drank. “I like tits.”
    “You want a skinny woman with tits? You got to be man enough to love the entire package. You got to love the real.”
    “I guess I’m just not man enough, then. I like ’em small and tight and athletic—”
    “With big tits.”
    Payne shrugged. “If they’ve got ’em it’s a plus. But the most important thing is no fats .”
    “You crackers are all mixed up and crazy like that. You’ve got the entire culture FUBAR. And meanwhile, you’re missing the sweetest, wettest, hottest poon this side of heaven.”
    “FUBAR?”
    “Fucked up beyond any recognition.”
    “Oh, ha, ha. Well, forget it. If it is no sex or sex with chubniks, I’ll pass on all of it forever. That shit is nasty. You don’t know which sweaty fold to