And a Lemon

“And a lemon,” she said, but she pronounced `lemon’ with a bad French accent, and she puckered her lips on the last syllable, held them there as the bartender fixed the citrus wedge to the edge of the glass. Her lips were something to love, but they were painted and red, had become the kind of lips that are for show, for being seen at a distance, not for kissing, lest their puckered, painted redness be ruined, and what he wanted most was to take the napkin from the bar, the one that had come with his food, and he wanted to wipe her lips, to show her what they were.

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