Kissing Russell Crowe

(I usually ask for responses to, not critiques of, my posts. But this time, I AM asking for your critiques. The following is a first draft of a piece I'm going to enter in an upcoming short-short fiction contest. Please read, and fire away:)

Languid on the snowy sheets. Satin. Or maybe clouds the angels rested on before winging into the forgetful sky. Smooth like that.

“What’s it like?” Jet asked.

“Like Mommy coming when you cry,” Lily said.

“No, really. If I’m going to try it, I want to know.”

“OK. Was there anything you wanted when you were a kid that you didn’t get? Something you cried and begged for?”

Jet laid back on the white down comforter at the foot of Lily’s bed, remembering. She said, “When I was five years old there
was this yellow organdy dress embroidered with daisies. It had a matching parasol, and that’s why I wanted it. I remember begging my mother and throwing myself on the floor and screaming for it. I got a spanking for doing that. Is it like getting that dress and parasol in all the colors of the rainbow?”

Lily stroked the cold ripples of the sheets. She said, “It’s like your mother told you she had something for you better than the dress. And then she showed you how to fly.”

“Wow. Do you feel like you’re flying now?”

Five minutes later Lily said, “No. Something better. Right now I’m kissing Russell Crowe.”

Jet smiled. I want to kiss him too,” she said.

The corneas of Lily’s eyes looked into the back of her head, so the whites fluoresced over her face.

“One thing,” she said. “You have to be able to take a punch.”