The Nomination by William G. Tapply

gazed up at the television, sighed, took another drink, and casually glanced at her.
    Just in time to catch her hastily shifting her eyes up to the TV.
    A couple minutes later he tapped another cigarette from his pack, picked up the Zippo, flicked it a few times, tapped it on the bar, flicked it again, blew on it.
    He turned to her. “Excuse me, Miss. My lighter’s out of fluid. Do you mind . . .?”
    She smiled. A really great smile. “No problem,” she said.
    She slid her lighter across the polished top of the bar to him. It was one of those cheap plastic throwaways. He lit his cigarette with it, then leaned toward her, holding it in his palm. “Thanks a lot,” he said.
    She plucked the lighter gingerly from his hand, as if she was afraid to touch him. She was frowning, cocking her head, looking at him.
    He smiled. “My name’s Eddie,” he said.
    â€œJesus,” she whispered. “It is you.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œYou don’t remember?”
    He pretended to study her face. Then he started shaking his head. “Bunny? Holy shit. Bunny Brubaker? Is that really you?”
    â€œIt’s been a long time, Eddie,” she said softly.
    â€œGod,” he said. “You look terrific.” He picked up his cigarettes and beer and moved to the stool beside her. Up close, he could see the fine cross-hatching of lines around her mouth and the puckery softness of the flesh on her throat. But those tits still looked great, the way they pressed against the front of her white short-sleeved shirt. She was wearing the same khaki-colored shorts she’d worn when he’d listened to her dolphin speech, and her bare legs, wrapped around her barstool, were brown and smooth.
    â€œYou look good, too,” she said.
    â€œI don’t believe it,” he said. “Small world, huh?”
    â€œYeah,” she said. “I always say. Small world.”
    The bartender came by, and Moran ordered another Bud for himself and another glass of wine for the lady.
    She plucked a cigarette out of her pack with her long fingernails.
    Moran picked up her lighter, flicked it, and held the flame for her. She touched his hand, steadying it as she bent to the lighter, looking up at him, those nice blue eyes smiling at him, the front of her shirt opening, giving him a glimpse of cleavage.
    Her eyes flickered for an instant. Her hand dropped away from his and she straightened on her stool. She took a long drag from her cigarette, tilted her chin, blew a long plume of smoke at the ceiling. A little smile played on her lips. “Sergeant Eddie Moran,” she said. “So what brings you to Key Largo?”
    He shrugged. “Quick getaway. Little fishing, little diving. I’m headed back tomorrow. What’ve you been doing? Still with the Red Cross?”
    She shook her head. “I got my fill of that over there. When I got back I joined a band. Had some fun for a while.”
    â€œWhat kind of band?”
    â€œOh, you know. Good ol’ rock ‘n’ roll. I played the guitar and sang. I had a good voice. Janis Joplin.”
    Moran nodded.
    â€œI was like her,” she said. “I could belt out a song, man. I had that Southern Comfort sound. Sexy, everybody said. I could give every guy in the place a hard-on, just singing ‘Summertime.’ I could play the guitar, too. I could really play.” She shook her head. “People used to say I even kinda looked like Janis.”
    â€œYou were much prettier than her,” said Moran. “You still are.”
    â€œWell, that’s sweet.” She drained her wineglass in two gulps. “This is awfully weird, you know?”
    Moran nodded. “It is. Who’da thought, after twenty-something years . . . ?”
    â€œMore like thirty.” She smashed her half-smoked cigarette into an ashtray and kept grinding it. “I got a divorce.”
    Moran nodded. “I kinda figured you would.