First off, I am attempting to finish this story before Monday (ha!) so the around 600 word episodes that I am posting will be popping up at irregular intervals. If you miss one, you can always find it under the category Don’t Worry Every Little Thing’s Gonna Be Alright.
I always encourage you all to give me your thoughts, suggestions, etc. Thanks to Nobbinmaug for a suggestion that may or may not be recognized in this passage. And may or may not be what was intended. 😀 If you want to see your idea come to life in this story, just drop me a comment. I can’t make a promise that they will be exactly as you intended, but there’s always the chance.
As always, thank you so much for reading and commenting. Your voice means everything!
≡≡≡continued from here≡≡≡
It’s Thursday morning, and I’m sitting at a pseudo-picnic table with three other people who’ve introduced themselves as evacuees from the storm, Dana and Pedro Gutierrez and their son, Wilson. The biggest man I’ve ever seen in my life, he must be around 6’5”, sits next to me with his bowl of cereal and cup of heavily creamed coffee. He smiles at me.
“I’m Al,” he says and offers his huge hand for me to shake, which I do, immediately recognizing that he could easily break my fingers with the barest of squeezes.
He lowers his ear to his cereal and smiles. “Do you hear that?”
I give my head the slightest of shakes while my eyes search his. “No. What?”
“That snap, popple, crack?”
Again, I shake my head, half-smiling because I wonder if he’s putting me on.
“My cereal, man. Do you think it’s gay?”
I glance at the Gutierrez’ and then shrug. “Gay?”
“My cereal is getting it on. Listen.”
I put a huge spoonful of oatmeal into my mouth and chew, hoping that I can beam myself out of this current scenario because I don’t have the slightest idea what is going on. Is this guy on drugs?
“Waffle Butt, my cereal is orgasmic.”
Crap. Does everyone think my name is Waffle Butt?
“I don’t think you should be talking like that in front of a little kid.”
“But, my cereal, dude, it’s so happy. Wouldn’t you like to be happy like that?”
My omnipresent flush creeps over me, and I close my eyes. Why do these things happen to me? And then I hear chuckling, and Al has nearly face planted in his bowl of rice crispies. “Do we have that on video? She’s the greatest, no?”
I look up in time to see Dana removing ear plugs from Wilson’s ears. I’ve been had. I nod and smile. “Okay, you got me.”
“That means you have to karaoke later.”
I shake my head fervently. “You do not want to hear me karaoke. Ever.”
“From what I remember, you used to be damn good.” That voice sends a shiver up my spine, especially after yesterday evening’s dream.
I look up and see Steve, dressed in a blue t-shirt and tight blue jeans. I almost feel like oatmeal may be seeping from the side of my mouth. He’s wearing a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, making him look serious and smart and still sexy.
“Your memory’s bad,” I say.
I plop another spoonful of oatmeal into my mouth while staring at him, which is stupid because I know I look like a chipmunk with my high cheekbones even fuller. Maybe he likes chipmunks…which is creepy.
He sits next to me, his thigh presses against mine, the warmth surging through me. I suddenly become enamored with the color and shape of the remainder of my oatmeal.
“I remember your singing that song…”
I glance quickly at him. “What song?”
I look at him quizzically because I really don’t know what he’s talking about and I’m half-afraid that he’s reminiscing about something he did with Mandy, which wouldn’t necessarily kill me, but would sincerely kill this rush.
“That Springsteen song you used to sing so breathlessly. Man, you singing that song killed me.”
Oh, and that flush is back again, but with good reason this time. I do know what he’s talking about because I loved that song. I loved thinking about him while singing it. I grab my cup of coffee and take a huge sip, hoping the jolt of caffeine will stabilize me.
“Ohhhhh, I’m on fire,” Steve says.
I hold my hand up and shake my head. “Please stop.”
“Because you can’t sing.” I’m lying. He can sing. I’m melting, but it’s breakfast time and there’s a sweet family sitting across from me who have just fled their home, and I can’t think about sex or anything like that.
I grab my empty bowl, swallow down the remainder of my coffee, and then jump to my feet. “Gotta walk Rufus.”
I nearly run to my room, thinking that I am once again running away from the thing I want most to run to.
≡≡≡to be continued≡≡≡
FYI for future installments this will be under the category Don’t Worry Every Little Thing’s Gonna Be Alright