Miuki’s Smile
Covering her face with her big black sketchbook, she lifts her eyes over the precipice, watching as her cherry-red fan blows his curly hair across his face while he smiles, shivering, wrapped up in her black bedsheets. Bedsheets her boyfriend bought her. But he’s stuck in China and she needed something stuck in her. And so.
Her drawing is done. She’s drawn every boy she’s ever had. In the black book. She doesn’t think her boyfriend knows or cares because he’s never asked. But of course this guy asks. He’s always asking; an asker, one might call ‘em. Other guys just fall asleep or grab a cigarette on the balcony, never ask. She could’ve guessed he’d ask. The ever- inquisitive asker. Normally seen with silver bolo tie, decaying leather belt, and stupidly polite smile. Low-IQ white guy smile. Disarming, charming, stakes-lowering grin that knows it’s smarter than it’s showing — she knows ‘cause she does it too.
In their environment, the red, purple, n’ gold casino floor, you have to pull off a look of utter stupidity. If you look as smart as you really are, most people won’t play at your table. But ya gotta be smart: and so the look. She learned it from her dad. Santa Monica pier, 2008, vanilla ice cream dripping down her arm: some suit walks up to her dad and asks him if he speaks English; he just deploys the smile. The cold, sea-salt breeze...
His lips, working up her leg. He’s still got the sheets wrapped around him. Says he’s from Texas. Says he don’t like the cold. Kisses on her thigh now, where she likes it. Head back, eyes closed. The kisses stop. Eyes open. And he’s got the book. Lying on his stomach. Not flipping through, just looking at her most recent drawing. Says “Who’s this?” Can’t help himself, smiling, so vain, so proud of a stupid joke. She grabs his belt and slaps his ass with it. The leather sounds good on his skin. She grabs another condom, thankful the CVS below wasn’t out, and smiles.
- Steffan Sitka