Every Little Dream(2)
“Maybe it will attract customers. The nutty waitress at Seaside Inn, in love with the condiments.”
She stifles a giggle, glancing over at a new stream of customers entering. “I think we’ve been working too hard. I’ll finish up here. Why don’t you get on out of here. In another few weeks, tourist season will hit full steam, and unless my uncle finds another waitress, we’ll barely have any time to ourselves.”
I pause, doubting. A part of me wants to flop down on my bed upstairs, watch a movie until I fall asleep.
“Go on. Get out of here.” Justine plasters on her waitress grin and greets the new customers, settling them into a booth. Then she walks toward me, determination marking her face. She grabs my arms and leads me to the back door. “Go upstairs, change into something slightly sexy and go for a walk. Something. Buy a drink at The Salty Dog.”
“Fine. Fine.” I laugh and head up the stairs, but the laughter fades once I’m in my room. I sit in front of my dresser, my reflection staring back at me. I mess my hair, pucker up and bat my eyelashes. “What? Me? Why I’d love a drink.” I giggle. My voice sounds a little too much like confectioner’s sugar.
I turn away. This isn’t going to work in a ketchup-stained apron. I jump in the shower and rinse off the smells and sweat of the day. While my hair air dries I find a pair of skinny jeans and a white top. In a moment of crazy inspiration I use the black eyeliner instead of brown, and lipstick instead of gloss. Then I sit back in front of the mirror. A different girl stares back, a confident one, at least on the outside.
I smile, seductively. “Why, hey there, gorgeous, I’d love a drink. Thank you.”
In my head, this handsome devil flirts attentively, talking and listening. He’s focused and finds what I have to say interesting and a little bit funny. He sees deeper than the bubbly blonde stereotype.
He sees me.
I challenge myself. “Your life isn’t going to change by hiding out in your bedroom.”
I grab a sweater and head out to the boardwalk. The familiar sounds greet me, the ones I’ve gotten so used to I barely recognize: the sound of traffic, cry of the seagulls soaring in the air, and the crash of the waves.
A motorcycle roars as it zips by. I bet whoever’s riding the bike is confident and brave. I bet he doesn’t let anyone keep him down. I bet he grabs life by the throat and doesn’t let it go until he gets what he wants. Isn’t that the kind of guy who would ride a motorcycle?
Well, I’m not about to get a bike. Or ride one for that matter.
Lost in my thoughts, I reach the end of the boardwalk where the road continues past the state beach and into other towns. I retrace my steps. Exciting. I should do this more often because clearly this is where people go for a good time. The lights of The Salty Dog blink, calling to passing customers, pulling me in like a beacon summoning a ship home, but I keep walking, my gaze straight ahead. I know the kind of guys that hang out there, and the girls. I wouldn’t fit in there despite the fact that Justine says it’s not all that bad.
The On Demand movie channel calls to me louder. Looks like I’ll snuggle up with my dream guy on T.V. My exciting night is winding down.
Someone screams across the street. The words barely pierce into my depressing line of thought, but it’s the screech of tires that get my attention. It’s close, too close.
I whip around. A car careens across the road. The driver’s trying to hit or miss the motorcycle, which has swerved into the wrong lane. The bike barrels right toward me. More screams. They’re yelling at me.
I can’t seem to get air in and out. The bike heads right toward me.
Chad
The engine vibrates along the inside of my legs. When I’m on my bike, I’m king, the master of my universe. With a burst of speed, I whip my cycle between the cars along the strip. I can feel the dirty looks, the judgmental thoughts. I don’t care.
This is me. Fuck me or leave me.
The wind tears at my hair and face. Tears form in the corner of my eyes from the speed. The sleeves of my T-shirt ripple. One more time around and I’ll head to The Salty Dog for another around. Maybe by then the girl I pissed off will be gone. It wasn’t my fault. She wielded her body like a ninja. When I didn’t respond the way she wanted, she spent the next hour dissing me and sending icy glares that could melt the polar ice caps. At the same time, I curse to myself. How long has it been since I got laid?
Too long.
I’ll have to move to another state to escape my damn reputation that I just hook up with girls for a couple nights, and then I’m gone. Girls are finally forgetting about my disaster relationship that was Carly. What no one knows is that after that doomed affair, I don’t allow myself to develop anything too deep for a girl.