Kryptonite

There's something about the light in the Pacific Northwest. It's different. Crisper. Whiter. Even at Golden Hour.

It streamed across my laptop on the table by the window in the corner of the otherwise empty Kitsilano coffee shop, obscuring the text I was I was trying to read. Picking up the red pen I struck through the corresponding paragraph in the stapled set of pages next to my stack of frosted sugar cookies. Act One revised. Two more to go.

It had taken me three days to get this far. With three days left in my vacation it looked like I wasn't going to finish editing the script. Once I got back to work I wouldn't have time, so I needed to buckle down and get it done. Maybe if I spent a little less time admiring the sunsets....

The door swung open ringing the bell. I looked up to a woman walking in; tall and slender, in boot cut jeans, soft shell blue/white motorcycle jacket and a Rockies baseball cap. She shuffled quietly to the counter, the soles of her sneakers scuffing over the tile. She stopped just short, planting both fists on the counter before examining the menu board.

The barista strode over to take her order; a string of decadent-sounding words with references to milk and ice sprinkled in. As he busied himself blending the drink she turned and leaned on the counter. I snapped back to my screen, fingers blindly typing words I knew I'd later have to correct. A few moments later, when I thought it was safe, I stole another glance.

She slouched in a sunbeam, loose platinum blonde curls sparkling on her shoulders. The brim of the cap shadowed her face. Her shoulders drooped and her hands retreated into her sleeves. She oozed melancholy, which seemed a stark contrast to her style. Not that it was any of my business. Trying to focus, I returned to my script.

In the lull between pulses of the blender something rattled against the Corian. I peeked again, catching her swipe her phone from her back pocket. She stared at it a second before banging her thumbs on the screen and shoving it back into her jeans. Glad I wasn't on the other end of that text.

About halfway down the page the barista appeared with a tall clear cup filled with ice cubes, whipped cream and swirls. "That'll be $11.25," he said, setting it on the counter beside her. She reached into her jacket. Then snapped her hand out and patted her sides. Her head fell back.

"Fuuuuck."

She checked every pocket, rooting around and pulling some inside out. But she did not find what she was looking for. "Can I use my phone," she asked finally, frustration staining her voice. The barista nodded, gesturing toward the register.

She opened an app and waved the slab over the reader. A blip sounded instead of a chime. She tapped, then waved again. Same result. "Oh come on," she fumed. I don't know what came over me, but before I realized what I was out of my chair and walking toward them.

"Excuse me," I called to the barista, weaving round a table. I pinched two bills from my wallet and set them on the countertop. "Keep the change."

The woman looked at me. Her jaw was sharp and set, lips pursed, eyes just concealed by the glare on the lenses of narrow rectangular metal-framed glasses. She seemed tired. And anxious. And irritated.

And beautiful.

And vaguely familiar.

"You don't have to do that," she said softly.

"It's fine," I replied. "My turn to pay it forward."

I smiled. She turned away just as I thought I caught a lift in the corners of her mouth. With a nod to the barista, I retreated to my seat. The woman plucked a straw and napkin from the dispenser. Slipping the cup into a java jacket she scooped it all up and quietly left the shop. I took a deep breath and a bite of a cookie before getting back to work.

...

I'd scanned a few lines of dialogue when the bell on the door jingled again. I ignored it this time, determined to make some headway. But soon, footsteps stopped across from me and a shadow fell over the edge of the table.

"Do you mind if I sit," the woman asked.

I looked up, surprised to see her back. I motioned toward the empty chairs. "No, please," I replied, "help yourself."

She slid in across from me with barely a sound, setting her cup next to my plate. "Thank you," she said, "for the coffee. I don't know why my phone didn't work."

Her perfume tickled my nose, light sweet fruits over sandalwood and cedar base. "No problem," I shrugged. "It looked like you needed it."

"Yeah," she affirmed. "It's been one of those days."

She flipped off her ball cap and set it to the side, dropping her glasses gently on top. She raked her fingers through her hair and shook it out, sweeping stray locks from her eyes. I watched her, closer this time, and when her lips creased upward I froze mid-breath. I knew I recognized her.

"I'm Melissa," she said.

Of course she was. That was her face, her hair, her voice. I couldn't believe I'd been duped by the old glasses on glasses off trope. Kicking myself under the table I tried to relax, formulate a response. Should I just say hello? Should I ask for an autograph? She was a ways from downtown, in a hat and glasses, maybe she didn't want to be noticed.

"Nice to meet you Melissa," I finally replied. It was all I could do not to stutter and blubber. "I'm Bishop."

Her eyebrows raised. "Bishop?"

I nodded. "My parents had aspirations. Needless to say, they're terribly disappointed."

She laughed. Sipped her drink. I snatched the half-eaten cookie from the top of the stack and poked the plate in her direction. She eyed the frosted discs a moment before taking one and placing it on the napkin in front of her.

"So, Bishop," she began, "you're a writer?"

My brain blipped out each time she said my name. "Umm...what?"

She pointed to the pen pinched in my fingers. "Alone in a coffee shop with a laptop and a script, I just thought --"

"Oh, right, um...not yet. I'm working on it though." I paused, debating whether I should ask. Seemed like it would be weird not to. "What about you," I added. "What do you do?"

She flashed a smile at the window. "I...am an actor," she replied, turning back toward me. Her tone was flat, neither proud nor deprecating.

"Oh, cool," I said. "Anything I might have seen?"

"I doubt it," she lied, shaking her head. She took a drag on the straw, then pointed to my computer.

"Can I see it?"

I drew a blank, tapping the paper to buy time. It wasn't ready to be read -- that was the whole purpose of the edit. On the other hand, an industry professional was asking to see my work. I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Uhh...yeah, sure." I spun the laptop and eased it toward her. Biting into her cookie she started to read.

Her skin glowed in the evening light. Dark eyeshadow and thin black liner drew sharp contrast to her liquid blue irises. She scanned the screen, back and forth, dragging fingers down the touchpad to scroll the pages. I waited for a sign -- an eyebrow lift, curled lip -- anything to signal she was enjoying the read. But she gave me nothing. The longer she was quiet the more nervous I became, wringing my hands in my lap.

Finally, she twirled the computer back to me and reached for her drink. My nerves frayed. "Okay," she said after a mouthful of coffee, "I like it. It's clever. What's it about?"

Relief flushed my pores. Clever felt like quite the compliment at this stage. Gathering my thoughts I recited my elevator pitch, paying close attention not to spoil anything in my excitement. By the time I finished she was smiling at me, with the hint of a nod in the motion of her chin.

"You might have something here," she said between nibbles of cookie.

I frowned. It was the opposite of what I felt, but it was the only motion my face would make.

"Really?"

"Yeah," she shrugged, "I'd watch it. It's a little niche, but there's an audience for it. Just need to get it to the right person."

"Huh." I didn't know what to say. So I said something stupid. "Well that's encouraging."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Annoyed, she fished it out and looked it, before rolling her eyes and stuffing it away. Her countenance darkened.

"Everything okay," I wondered.

She nodded, pursing her lips. "Yeah," she answered, unconvincingly, "it's just...work."

I nodded, not understanding at all. I knew the show was in its final season, so maybe that wasn't sitting right with her? But whatever was behind this seemed much more acute. More...present. She drummed her fingers on the table, staring outside.

"Do you umm...you want to get outta here?" She looked back at me, eyes heavy, but expectant.

"Uhhh...sure," I replied, pretending I needed to think about it. "Where do you want to go?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Somewhere pretty."

I'd spent a lot of time in Vancouver -- it was my favorite city to visit. But I'd never stayed in this neighborhood before. Other than the beach I didn't know what might be considered "pretty." There was one option I could offer. Buuut...it might be a little awkward. I didn't want to be that guy. But it was all I had.

"I'm not from around here," I admitted, "so I don't really know." I hesitated, hoping she'd bail me out. She didn't. I shrugged, wincing a little. "The place I'm staying at has a roof deck."

Her head tilted; eyebrows raised. "That sounds pretty."

....

We meandered the three blocks to my Vrbo, soaking up the sinking sun and musing about the city. The sidewalk was narrow, and our shoulders bumped and arms tangled as we walked. I tried not to crowd her, but she didn't seem to care. At times she seemed to do it on purpose.

She talked like she'd lived there her whole life; raving about her favorite spots to eat, the best trails through Stanley park, and the coolest spots for a quiet drink on the weekend or after work. By the time we crested the hill and arrived at the house I had a complete itinerary for my next visit.

I led her to up to the deck and returned to the kitchen to mix us a drink. There wasn't much in the cupboard; two airplane bottles of tequila and gin, and a cheap whiskey. I split the whiskey between two glasses and stirred in sour mix I found in the fridge. Returning it to the shelf I shut the door and slumped against the counter, quietly incredulous.

How the hell was this happening? What did I do to deserve this delight? More importantly, how was I going to get through this without making a fool of myself? It took a minute for my hands to stop shaking long enough to carry the glasses up the stairs.

....

When I emerged she was standing at the railing, gazing out over the treetops toward the mountains north of English Bay. To the east the Coal Harbour skyscrapers blazed in the orange light of the sinking sun. And to the west the giant ball of flame neared dipping a toe into the ocean behind the island. I set the glasses on the square teak table between two Adirondack chairs. She turned, her hair a halo against the sky.

"It's beautiful," she said, wandering back and swinging herself into a chair. "Kinda romantic actually."

The word froze me. An appropriate response evaded my lips, so I pretended I didn't hear it. Instead I nodded and stretched out in the other seat. "I usually stay in Hastings," I offered. "So its different from what I'm used to."

"Where are you from?" she asked, sipping her drink.

"Originally? Toronto."

"Aww," she pouted, "I'm sorry."

I laughed, turning away, chagrinned at being trash talked by an American. Sure, it's fun to take shots at Toronto -- we all do it. But it's different inside the family. This was like some yokel at school picking on your brother. An incredibly attractive yokel, but...whatever.

"Well, you're lucky it isn't raining," I replied.

"Oooh, weather jokes," she snickered, "classic." She nudged my shoulder with the glass in her hand, smiling while she took a drink. "How often do you come here?"

"Twice a year, if I can," I said. "Spring and fall. Best time to see the city."

She raked her fingers through her curls and sank further into the contour of the chair.

"So," she said, "If you're not a writer--yet, what do you do?"

"Industrial design," I replied, knowing what would come next.

"I...don't know what that is," she laughed.

I shrugged. "Most people don't. I design...products. You know, like toasters, flashlights, that sort of thing. Sometimes I get something fun, like a camera or a phone. But most of the time its toothbrushes or doorknobs or handles for shit."

"Anything I would recognize?"

I thought for a moment. "Depends. Do you have one of those stainless-steel Thermos water bottle things?"

"Several," she nodded.

"Well, the rubber grip on the flip-top straw thingy? That was me."

"Really?" She sounded far more impressed than anyone should have. "Cool!"

I shook my head laughing. "No it isn't. You don't have to lie."

"Seriously," she protested, "I love that thing!"

"Well thank you."

She threw back a swig more whiskey. "Do you know how many times I've said to myself I wish I could meet the industrial designer who designed this little rubber grip on the flippy top straw thing and tell him how brilliant it is?"

"Okay," I smirked rolling my eyes, "now you're just being a jerk."

"I am," she laughed, "I'm sorry. I'm a horrible person. I do love it though. Honest."

"Mmm hmm. Sure you do." I finished my drink and set the glass on the table. "I also do storyboard art for movies sometimes."

She tipped her head. "Is that how you got into writing?" I shrugged but said nothing. "Well why didn't you lead with that?"

"You're right," I replied with a chuckle, "that would have been better."

Her phone rang. Instantly her smile disappeared. She dug it out to have a look. An angry growl leap from her throat and she flung the phone out onto the deck before slamming her back against the chair. I looked away, unsure of what to do with the awkward silence.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I said finally. "If you need to go --"

Staring at the sky she sighed and put down the glass. "Listen," she began, turning toward me. "I'm having a pretty shitty day. And the last hour has been the only fun I've had this week. So thank you. I don't want to think about --," she waved in the direction of the phone, "--any of that. You're cute. And you seem like a fun guy. So...."

She paused, like she was selecting each word and arranging them in her head. Then gave up and just spit them out.

"...do you want to fuck?"

The words hit like a boot to the chest. I couldn't believe they'd come out of her mouth. Or that they were directed at me. My jaw dropped. I watched her, holding my breath, nervous that if I exhaled I might wake up and ruin the dream. And then there was a thought. A memory. Something I'd heard somewhere before.

"Aren't you...aren't you married?"

She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "You can say no if you want." There was a hint of apprehension -- disappointment in her voice.

"Umm...yes," I stammered--then caught myself. "I mean no--I mean...wait. Yes, I want to. No, I don't want to say no."

"Sooo...you do want to?"

I rubbed my chin and smiled, my cock rousing in my jeans. Could I really say no to Supergirl? I turned my head and shrugged, pulling myself together. "Sure. You look like a fun girl."

She watched me while she emptied her glass, burning through me with her x-ray vision, looking for what I did not know. But whatever it was she must have found it. The glass clicked against the table, followed by her spectacles. There it was again. That unmistakable smile reaching all the way to her eyes. She rose from the chair and crossed the gap, straddling my waist and easing her weight down onto my chest.

"Why don't you find out," she whispered, her nose grazing mine, hair shrouding my face. I tipped up my chin and kissed her lips. Soft and warm. And moist from the whiskey. She kissed me back. Gently at first, feeling me out; then pressing in and smothering my mouth with hers. We breathed each other. Slow and steady.

She pinched the zipper on her jacket. Smushing her hips into mine she tugged it slowly down until it separated at the bottom. I knifed my hands into the opening near the collar and parted them along her clavicle, shrugging the shell from her shoulders. The texture of her shirt felt strange under my palms. Breaking our gaze I lowered my eyes--and froze.

There it was.

The Persian blue woven background with the cadmium red 'S' in canary yellow outline emblazoned on the chest. I skimmed a finger over the fabric, tracing the curves of the letter between her breasts. Settling my hands on her waist I cocked my head and frowned.

"Nothing I might have seen, huh."

She pursed her lips, sheepish. "Sorry," she said. "Sometimes it's easier to be nobody."

I kissed her again, lingering on her bottom lip, then down to her chin. She leaned in, slipping her arms around my neck. "There's a zipper on the back," she whispered, nuzzling my cheek.

"Hmm." I wasn't about to pass this up this opportunity. "What if we umm...just leave it on."

A beat. Then she humped against my groin and purred in my ear. "I think I'm going to like you."

...

I don't remember how we ended up inside, shoeless, stumbling down the stairs from the roof to the living room. We kissed and groped, thumping into walls and tripping over each other's feet until we spilled into the cushions on the soft gray couch. I rested on top, her legs wrapped round my waist, arms crossed above her head. She opened her mouth to speak. I placed a finger on her lips and turned her head away, trailing feathered kisses from her ear lobe down her neck to her shoulder.

She sighed beneath me, hands gliding under my sweater and shirt. She raked her fingers back and forth across my skin before pinching the fabric and stretching both layers off over my head. The chill of the room startled me. Sharp contrast to the warmth of her breath on my ear.

Sliding down I edged her top up over her ribs, exposing her smooth, flat tummy to gentle, deliberate kisses. She giggled, her fingers circling the back of my head. I drifted further, around her navel, stopping at the slight crease in her abdomen at the top of her jeans. My thumb hooked around the button, fingers over the waistband, catching on a more delicate fabric below. I held. Looked up. She looked down. Nodded.

Flicking the brass through the eyelet I peeled apart the zipper and tugged at the denim. She raised her hips, then her legs, and I twisted her jeans and underwear over her feet and tossed them to the floor. Cradled in my arms a pair of toned, creamy thighs drew my attention to the velvety pink jewel framed between. I bit my tongue one last time to make sure this was real.

"You okay?" she whispered. Apparently my face betrayed the discomfort. I smiled, nodding just a little, but saying nothing. The 'S' on her chest heaved in anticipation. I ran my hands around the curves of her calves before settling back on the tops of her thighs. Easing down to my stomach I propped up on my elbows and gazed at her over the mound of her breasts.

"Are you okay," I queried?

Lips pouting and belly trembling she nodded. I mirrored her response, then lowered my head.

I nibbled her inner thigh, working up to the top of her mons and down the other side, carefully avoiding her labia. She squirmed, trying to match my lips to hers. But I held her hips still and continued circling, evading her advances, winding her up.

"Fucking tease," she moaned, pawing at my arms and the top of my head. I swatted her away and laughed. As she tried to sit up to respond I touched a finger to her button and spun it through the length of her slit. She yipped, pitching her pelvis, planting her shoulders in the cushion. Her cream clung to my knuckle, clear and slick. I strung it across the divot of her navel, then dipped the tip back in the well.