DEAD WINTER: A CRYPTIC Anthology

New Year's Kiss • Sandra Grayson

It's New Year's Eve and there's a nip in the air that forces me to tug on my leather gloves and tighten the belt of the trench coat I'm wearing. I'm at the intersection of Main and Lincoln, making my way to the only shop that's open tonight. I've been asked to buy grapes.

"To make wishes on," my mother tells me.

I despise New Year's. I always spend it with my adopted family and their friends who never grow tired of asking when I'm going to finally settle down. Like they really care.

Spending New Year's Eve with the family is expected. And being the dutiful son that I want them to think I am, I make the six hour drive to my hometown. I smile and laugh and pretend to ignore the dark thoughts that are constantly swirling inside me. So when my mother asks me to buy grapes, I jump at the chance to escape. It's not like I can blame her for believing that eating grapes could make her wishes come true. She's a woman after all and women believe in crap like that.

It's a ridiculous idea but not as crazy as the tradition of kissing someone at midnight. Like I'm supposed to believe that kissing someone at a certain time of the year will guarantee me a year-long pass from loneliness. Like lottery tickets, it's just another attempt for the desperate to cling onto the hope of a better future.

The streets are surprisingly quiet as I run my errand and I have a few more blocks to go before I reach my destination. I see a woman up ahead and across the street. She's a redhead in black stilettos and a short purple dress that clings to every crook and cranny of her body. She's sexy. I know it. She knows it.

Behind her is a tall bald man with a dragon tattoo on his head that extends towards his left cheek. He's a few paces behind her and he's making her nervous. I can tell by the way she's quickening her pace even though it's probably hell to walk in those heels across pavement. They're coming up on an alley. This part of the neighborhood is dark and ominous- the perfect place for sinning. A decent person would call out to her. Would try and help her. My mouth twists upward and I follow Red and Dragon Man. This should be fun.

By the time I cross the street, he's pulled her into the alley and he's got her pressed against the wall. A nearby street lamp is flickering and for a moment I wonder how many shitty things that street lamp has seen. What stories it could tell. I even imagine it speaking to me in some kind of Morse code. As if that street lamp wants to tell me every single one of its dark and dirty secrets. Or maybe it's calling for help...trying to save this stupid redhead that's gotten herself in jam. Or not. Perhaps instead of calling for help, it's beckoning dark souls like mine to come forward and join the party. Maybe it's what signaled Dragon Man who was currently shoving his hand up Red's dress. I bet she's wishing she hadn't dressed like a whore tonight.

It's a funny thing. Women wear their stilettos and short dresses without a bra. They paint their faces and stick collagen in their lips so that they all look like they're extended relatives to the Kardashians and yet they expect to be treated like ladies. They hide behind the cotton-candied armor of feminism, spouting crap like, "I can dress however I want but it's not an invitation to grope me!"

But here's the rub...no pun intended. You need people like me and Dragon Man. Our presence reminds you that danger lurks everywhere. We keep you from falling into the dangerous trap of believing you're safe. You're not. You can't dress like a whore and expect to be ignored. And let's be honest...you don't want to be ignored. You like it when men crave your body and women envy it. It gives you a false sense of empowerment that you pretend to attribute to strength or self-expressionism. Sure some may nod and agree with you, but we all know that when you show off your body, it's because you want attention. My attention.