and miss for a while. I was rooting for them, but Marcy, the other waitress here, bet fifteen dollars that they wouldn’t wind up together. It looked for a minute like she would win her bet. In fact, just fifteen minutes ago, I was serving Beryl and Thor pie a la mode here in the Summer Island Diner where I work, while they were saying a sad goodbye and getting ready for her to take the ferry to the mainland.
But she obviously missed the ferry, and instead of breaking up, they’re lip locked, limb locked, pelvis locked, and not coming up for air against the lamp post on the abandoned pier under a rain that’s getting heavier by the minute.
I fan myself with a menu and fight back the urge to put my hands against the glass to see more clearly. There’s low visibility because of the brewing storm, which has plummeted Summer Island into darkness in the middle of the afternoon, and because I’ve been breathing pretty heavily on the window while watching them do the nasty, and now the window is fogged up.
“Whatch’a looking at, Norma?” Marcy asks. She’s hemmed her pink waitress uniform so high that I can see her blue panties when she bends over. She’s told me that her sewing skills have given her enough income in tips to buy a new living room set with two recliners. My sewing skills aren’t that daring or profitable. My pink waitress uniform is only hemmed to just above my knees, and for that I had to take off a yard of material because I’m only a hair over five-feet-tall. I’m short all over, with a short, button nose, a black bob haircut, and even short fingernails.
“Nothing,” I tell Marcy, stepping away from the window and turning her around so that she doesn’t see the action. Thor and Beryl deserve their moment of privacy, even though they chose to get hot and heavy out in the open in the middle of the afternoon. Not that it looks like day outside. It’s more of a total eclipse, Dorothy is going to fly overhead, District Nine kind of day. We’re a small island off the coast of Southern California, so we’re not used to bad weather. I don’t even own an umbrella. But we’re getting our share of bad weather today. The wind and rain are throwing boats against the wharf, making a terrible noise.
“You-know-who is here,” Marcy whispers to me, as we walk to the kitchen to pick up the orders.
“You don’t have to call him you-know-who.”
“I don’t want him to know that you’re talking about him.”
“I’m not talking about him. You are.”
Marcy grabs hold of my arms, stopping me in my tracks. “Right. Exactly. Why aren’t you talking about him? When are you going to start talking about him? He won’t stay interested in you forever, you know.”
Her voice is low but urgent, and her big blue eyes look like they’re going to bug out of her face from earnestness. I sneak a peek at you-know-who, who’s sitting at his regular table in the corner.
You-know-who.
I take a deep, appreciative breath. Every time I think of you-know-who’s name—Stone Jenkins—I take a deep, appreciate breath. He’s been my big brother’s best friend since I can remember, and therefore, I’ve been taking deep, appreciative breaths for a very long time.
Stone is about six-foot-three, strong as a horse, blond with green eyes. His skin is weathered from working as a deep sea fisherman since he was a teenager, since even before I started working at the Summer Island Diner when I was in high school. He’s a great fisherman, probably because he’s so hot that the fish jump into his boat on purpose. Anything to get closer to him.
When Stone’s boat’s docked, he comes to the diner every evening for an early dinner. Otherwise, he’s out fishing, just like my father and brother. He grew up hanging around my house, stuck like glue to my big brother and becoming a surrogate member of my family.
So I should be used to him by now.
And yet.
“He’s not interested in me,” I say and walk around Marcy.
But she obviously missed the ferry, and instead of breaking up, they’re lip locked, limb locked, pelvis locked, and not coming up for air against the lamp post on the abandoned pier under a rain that’s getting heavier by the minute.
I fan myself with a menu and fight back the urge to put my hands against the glass to see more clearly. There’s low visibility because of the brewing storm, which has plummeted Summer Island into darkness in the middle of the afternoon, and because I’ve been breathing pretty heavily on the window while watching them do the nasty, and now the window is fogged up.
“Whatch’a looking at, Norma?” Marcy asks. She’s hemmed her pink waitress uniform so high that I can see her blue panties when she bends over. She’s told me that her sewing skills have given her enough income in tips to buy a new living room set with two recliners. My sewing skills aren’t that daring or profitable. My pink waitress uniform is only hemmed to just above my knees, and for that I had to take off a yard of material because I’m only a hair over five-feet-tall. I’m short all over, with a short, button nose, a black bob haircut, and even short fingernails.
“Nothing,” I tell Marcy, stepping away from the window and turning her around so that she doesn’t see the action. Thor and Beryl deserve their moment of privacy, even though they chose to get hot and heavy out in the open in the middle of the afternoon. Not that it looks like day outside. It’s more of a total eclipse, Dorothy is going to fly overhead, District Nine kind of day. We’re a small island off the coast of Southern California, so we’re not used to bad weather. I don’t even own an umbrella. But we’re getting our share of bad weather today. The wind and rain are throwing boats against the wharf, making a terrible noise.
“You-know-who is here,” Marcy whispers to me, as we walk to the kitchen to pick up the orders.
“You don’t have to call him you-know-who.”
“I don’t want him to know that you’re talking about him.”
“I’m not talking about him. You are.”
Marcy grabs hold of my arms, stopping me in my tracks. “Right. Exactly. Why aren’t you talking about him? When are you going to start talking about him? He won’t stay interested in you forever, you know.”
Her voice is low but urgent, and her big blue eyes look like they’re going to bug out of her face from earnestness. I sneak a peek at you-know-who, who’s sitting at his regular table in the corner.
You-know-who.
I take a deep, appreciative breath. Every time I think of you-know-who’s name—Stone Jenkins—I take a deep, appreciate breath. He’s been my big brother’s best friend since I can remember, and therefore, I’ve been taking deep, appreciative breaths for a very long time.
Stone is about six-foot-three, strong as a horse, blond with green eyes. His skin is weathered from working as a deep sea fisherman since he was a teenager, since even before I started working at the Summer Island Diner when I was in high school. He’s a great fisherman, probably because he’s so hot that the fish jump into his boat on purpose. Anything to get closer to him.
When Stone’s boat’s docked, he comes to the diner every evening for an early dinner. Otherwise, he’s out fishing, just like my father and brother. He grew up hanging around my house, stuck like glue to my big brother and becoming a surrogate member of my family.
So I should be used to him by now.
And yet.
“He’s not interested in me,” I say and walk around Marcy.
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