The beach at Corunna was known to attract military incognito and its share of aquatic UFOs. He hadn’t made a sound, approaching them from the rear, but there he was suddenly, and there he remained for the afternoon tour.
They’d sat on the bluff in La Jolla, drinking Frappucinos and watching the pelican guano collect on the crag. Was that really his name, and why a prop plane to the Amazon?
The fact is, had he stayed, beginning with a fleeting kiss she’d have taken him on the sofa between the pull-out bed and the floor, as noisily as a fat, hot Sicilian in a hog pen, right there in the street-side suite of the Gaslamp Hotel. The ensuing storm und quake would have dragged the boom mics from the film crew down the street right into the frame, their 1K tungsten spot bulbs descending in white heat, the whole scenario enough to waken a princess asleep on a pea.
To say nothing of the raving shrew who really had kicked him out of the Hyatt. What a fine, upstanding young womanizer she’d forfeited that night. Bitches never know. Somebody should tell them.
That Frappucino had kept her bug eyed all night. No matter the trip up the PCH on tap the next day. Tony Bennett was parked in his white convertible, ready to wake everybody.
And, Gene, the Muir Woods bus driver, knew the score. “It’s always a mess when they’re shooting a movie”. She drank white-to-red until her mind went blanc. The Napa sun could have shone forever, but Frisco froze her fingers and toes, all the way up the steps of the San Remo and back down again. It was so cold without him there. She couldn’t find her heart. Anywhere.
But, who waits in line? Big girls expect no phone calls.
One can only say that one must play the best hand one is dealt even when some diabolique adds a card to the deck. No matter that he’d dialed in the next morning and called her the “elder step sister.” The love of her life had been eight years her junior, dying alone five months to the day before her mother from what could only be termed chemical despondency.
In spite of this, she was not a hard woman. Life was a continuing crisis; best to seize every warm and fuzzy catharsis. Best to tell him to take care of his toys, and put them away when he was done playing. She’d be at home until the next merry-go-round.
© Ruth Ann Scanzillo
7/97; modified 1/24/15 all rights reserved. Every word. Thank you.
* This Category, SHORT STORIES, contains occasionally implied and sometimes explicit material. Please keep in mind that you are reading stories, and accept adult responsibility for viewing this material. Thank you!