5/10

Her name is Kelly and she’s a bartender at Wally’s Seafood on the waterfront. She bikes to work most days, a short ride, as she lives just down the street in one of the oldest houses on the block.  Bright pink rhododendrons, which she is quite proud of, adorn the small garden in her front yard.

She points them out to me from the rear patio at the restaurant over looking the bay.

“Here, put my sunglasses on; it’ll help you see them.”  She carefully slips the sunglasses that were balanced on her head around my ears and onto the bridge of my nose.  The graze of her cold fingers sends shivers down my sweaty back.

I look towards her house, into the sun.  The burst of vibrant flora against the otherwise bland stretch of green grass and white worn houses is refreshing.  I feign a deep interest, complimenting and admiring, just to keep her glasses on me a little longer.  But just as casually as she placed them on, she removes them, and moves on to the next guest.  Pointing to her front yard.  And placing her glasses on others’ faces.