Florida Heatwave by Michael Lister

place—the Mr. Lucky Motel by the Circle. In the morning she told me that she believed God had sent me to rescue her.
    We walked to the Coral Rose Café for breakfast. We held hands the whole way like we were teenagers or senior citizens. And we couldn’t stop talking about ourselves. Of course, everything I told her was made up—the parents, Di and Eddie, killed in a tragic automobile accident when I was seventeen, the military service, the combat medal, the stillborn child, the darling wife who died of cancer, my own struggle with grief and depression. I was learning about Elvis Engdahl at the same time Tina was, and I admired what I heard about me. I felt taller all of a sudden, and wiser. I stopped using the f-word so much. Tina told me that she’d grown up on Long Island with an alcoholic father, an obsessive-compulsive mother, a brother who’s now a registered sex offender, and an older sister who married a CPA, sold her soul for a summer house on Nantucket. Everyone in her family was a disappointment to everyone else. Tina, herself, dropped out of Siena College to follow her boyfriend to Florida. The less said about that parasite the better, she told me.
    We ate like wolves, and we couldn’t take our eyes off each other. She poured ketchup on her scrambled eggs, sprinkled salt on her grapefruit, and dripped Tabasco on her grits. She ate her toast with a knife and fork. I had seconds on the corned beef hash. She told me that modeling negligees was her hobby. She actually made her living as a prostitute. I told her those days were over now, and she squeezed my hand. She smiled, bit her lip, and wiped away a tear. We stopped by the Hess so I could show her off to Stavros and to Dawn, the morning clerk, who had had her chances with me. Later Tina and I went house-hunting and found a one-bedroom duplex on Harding Street. We moved in. New curtains, new welcome mat, a set of dishes, and a set of towels. We bought a microwave and started staying in on Friday nights. We’d watch a movie, split a six-pack, and eat Lean Cuisines, just like any happily married couple. We read newspapers and talked about where we’d like to be in five years. Me, I said I’d like to be working on a boat in the Bahamas. Anywhere but here, she said.
    I opened a checking account at the Wachovia bank because I thought you said the name like “Watch over ya,” like the bank was a guardian angel, but it turns out you pronounce it like “Walk over ya,” like the bank’s your ex-wife’s attorney. Anyway, the account was my little secret. When I had enough money saved, I planned to surprise Tina with a decent car. With a car we could go places. I worked extra shifts whenever I could, and when I wasn’t working, I was with Tina. On Saturdays we took a cab to the Winn-Dixie to do our food shopping for the week. On Sundays we took a bus to the beach or to the track.
    Tina’s little secret was she hadn’t stopped turning tricks. For a while I pretended I didn’t know what was going on. I ignored the evidence she hadn’t the wit or the will to conceal—the foil condom wrappers in the waste basket, the twenty-dollar bills on the nightstand, the unfamiliar body odor on the sheets. When I finally said something, Tina told me she was bored sitting around all day. I told her to walk to the park, why don’t you, or get a hobby. Learn how to cook, for chrissakes. Well, that set her off. She tossed an ashtray at the TV and broke the screen. She started packing her suitcase. I apologized, rocked her in my arms and scratched her back. She cried, hugged me, and said how she needed to feel useful, needed to pull her own weight, needed to contribute to the household. She agreed to look for honorable work, and it wasn’t long before she landed a waitressing job at IHOP. I switched to days so we could be together at night, and everything was once again hunky-dory.
    We spent many of our evenings at the Lamp Post Lounge. The Post didn’t attract the