Good Face

Jane stepped out of the front door, pulled her collar up against her throat and shuddered. The palm trees looked down on her. The pinky-orange hue somewhere up in the background indicated that the sun was yet again on its way out. She touched the tips of her fingers to the back pocket on her jeans, checking for the familiar outline of a phone. Then, opened her handbag and started rifling around. Her wallet was still in the main pocket. Her keys in the small one on the side. She took them out, thumbing the round keychain that said, “Al mal tiempo, buena cara.” Danny’s mom had gotten it for her, a lifetime ago. She still fiddled with it sometimes out of habit. There was a time when she didn’t even know what it said. But she had learned Spanish for him. Jane rubbed the side of the keychain until it was warm as she walked from the backyard, around the main house, and through the creaking front gate. She forgot where the car was parked and had to click the key fob a couple of times, searching for the brake lights. She slammed the door shut a little too loudly for Meridian Street. Once inside, she could finally breathe.

A strange shiver ran from one arm to the next, causing a quick jolting motion between her shoulders, like a mini exorcism. She stuck her tongue out and gagged as she jammed the key into the ignition. She wished she had a piece of gum. Or a toothbrush. Something to get the guy’s taste out of her mouth. His slobber was still smudged all over her upper lip. She could still smell him and didn’t like the scent. Her eyes flicked over quickly to the handbag, which was open and splayed about the passenger seat. Nope, no gum or toothbrush. What she’d have done for a cigarette in that moment. What she’d have done to stand on some gritty street on the Lower East Side that smelled of piss and shit and life again, bumming a light from a stranger. But she’d given up smoking in fear of death. And mostly crow’s feet. She ran through the list of items in her head once more, just in case. She didn’t want to go back. Phone, wallet, keys. Yup, she had everything. Time to fucking leave. 

She pretended to cry. How else was she supposed to get out of the inside of his mouth? She didn’t know anything about dating. At least, not anymore. The last time she’d dated it was only fun and games and sex. Now, everyone felt the need to profess their deep, sordid history on the sofa as foreplay. “I’m sorry,” she said, as she grabbed for her handbag and left. “I’m not ready for this.”

“I understand,” Cameron, or Connor, or whatever his name was, had said, “eleven years is a long time.”

She’d told him about Danny, of course. Couldn’t keep her mouth shut. He kept saying he understood. Kept saying that was why he was on Hinge, too. But his partner hadn’t dumped him out of the blue after eleven years. And the implication was different for men. He didn’t have to worry about a thing like time. Anyway, yes, it had been a long time. Long enough to forget what it was like to kiss another man. Long enough to forget what made a first date good; maybe that was why she had even fooled herself into sticking around for the kiss in the first place. Long enough to forget how a man’s arm slung across her shoulder blades incorrectly could hunch them in. Long enough to fall for the same droll lines that were still used as an excuse to kiss, even after explaining the sudden demise of her relationship and lack of desire for a new one, especially with anyone who lived in Los Angeles. Long enough to get used to just going along with things. Long enough to feel the clock start running out. Long enough to try and avert her eyes from well-meaning friends or family members at weddings. Long enough to bear the painful, womanly weight of questions like, “Are you and Danny next?” Or, “Do you want kids?” Long enough to almost convince herself she didn’t want kids. Long enough to stop fighting over it, at least. Long enough to say, “When you’re ready, honey.” Or “I’m not rushing you, but.” Long enough to stop finishing the other half of that sentence — to let it end at the conjunction. Long enough to forget the words she should have put at the front, “This is what I want.” That was the correct way to use a full stop. Long enough to forget how to extract herself from a situation that was no longer working, only needing a phone, wallet, and keys.

Once, there had been a time when Jane would’ve known how to end a bad first kiss. A younger Jane would’ve said, “Well, we’ve got no chemistry. This is simply not going to work.” A younger Jane would’ve touched up her lip gloss before she stood to leave. A younger Jane would’ve had no remorse. Now, she was the kind of woman who pretended to cry in order to make it out. Jane pressed her foot on the gas, accelerating as she merged onto 110. She rolled down the windows, and as the air rushed in, she screamed. She never liked Los Angeles. She never liked it at all. 

Kassie is the founding editor of Virgo Venus Press. Her writing has appeared in Hobart Pulp, Rejection Letters, and elsewhere. Her creative nonfiction essay was selected as an honorable mention for the 2025 Terry Tempest Williams Prize by North American Review. She's working on a novel. And a collection of essays. And a bunch of other stuff. You can find her on the internet @dontcallmekass.