The breeze was stiff–a bad hair day–unless you had a dearth of follicles. Randy ran a wrinkled hand over a pate that was almost as furrowed. He squinted past the bright sun at the slender blonde woman who sat at the next table, surveying the menu. She pulled her insect-like mirrored sunglasses down and stared at him. He smiled–something he didn’t do often. She threw back her mane the way a horse might, not meeting his eyes. Randy’s smile vanished as the glasses hid her eyes again. He took a pull of the weak beer he always drank. He liked to be in control. Randy turned away, pretending to focus on his drink, cursing his age, his ineptitude, his life.
He started as someone tapped his shoulder, causing him too to knock the plastic cup, spilling the urine-colored liquid onto his pants. Cursing, he swung around to confront whoever it was who had interrupted his self-sorrow. He stared up into the image of himself in the sunglasses. He cursed again–this time for appearing uncouth to the woman who exuded a light intoxicating perfume breeze.
“Jake?” the woman’s voice asked, lilting.
“Ye-Yeah. Do I know you?”
“Jake Masters?”
He tried to recall if he’d ever met the goddess behind the glasses, but drew snake-eyes.
“Yeah, that’s me. Do I know you?” he repeated, his speech stumbling due to too many weekends alone. He thrust a hand forward in greeting.
The woman shoved something into his outstretched paw. “This is for you.”
“Is–is it your number?” he gurgled, overcome by his good luck.
“It’s a summons. Have a good day.”
- END -