2
Grey
I’m embarkingon a mission of evil for the first time in my life—I preferjustice, but I’m well aware it’ll be calledevil, so I’ll own it—and the world is testing me. Making me face the fact that karma is real.
How, you ask?
By presenting me with the woman that I would, in this moment, abandon all of my plans for to move wherever she lives and to do good deeds with her day in and day out.
I know this is temporary. It’s infatuation with a gorgeous distraction. It’s a consolation prize for my day going sideways after finally having somethingrightwithin reach. It’sfun.
But I don’t care.
This is the first time I’ve felt content to justbewith anyone who isn’t Zen or Mimi in ages. I want to be near her, to listen to her talk about people I don’t know, and to watch her do what she’s doing right now.
Which is bending over, her curvy ass in the air, her skirt riding up almost enough for me to see the very bottom of that ass, while she refills a dog’s water bowl outside a closed-up shop down the beach from where we met a few hours ago.
The moon reflects off the ocean while the surf rolls to shore. It crashes over lava rocks among the sand just beyond a half wall on the other side of the walkway where we’ve paused. Everything smells like coconut and flowers and salt.
And I’m not bunching my shoulders or grinding my teeth or curling my hands into fists.
I’m simplyhere. Andhappy.
“There you go, you sweet thing,” she croons to the mutt, who wags his tail and attacks the water bowl. “Who’s a good puppers? Who’s such a good puppers?”
I want to be her good puppers.
I want the rest of the world to not exist, and for me to be hergood puppers.
This is a sign that I need to head back to my hotel room and appreciate this for what it’s been and quit thinking it could be anything more.
Instead, I stick my hands in my pockets and rock back on my feet while I try to get my cock under control. Touching my phone helps.
I should chuck the thing in the ocean, but I don’t litter. Especially with electronics in the ocean. “Are you the resident dog lady who feeds all of the strays back home?”
“No, but I can tell you that Mr. Trix’s dogs shouldnotbe at the dog park the same time as Mrs. Pebbles’s dogs. They each think it’s the other’s fault, but I can guarantee you that Mr. Trix’s dog is the problem.”
Every time she uses cereal as code names for people she knows, I wonder if she knows who I am.
But the next minute, she’s calling people Ms. or Mr. Sports Team or Little Coffee Style and talking about property boundary wars and power struggles between shop owners in a business owners association and who plays drums while the baby next door is trying to sleep, and I’m back to being utterly charmed.
“Do you have a dog?” I ask.
“We’re not talking about me.”
“You’re much more interesting than Mr. Trix.”
She straightens, looks around, and for the first time since we left the kombucha bar four hours ago, instead of charging off to the next task so fast on her chunky boots that I have to hustle to keep up with her, she makes it maybe ten steps continuing in the direction we were headed—which is very close to my hotel—before she stops.
I watch, entranced, while she turns in a slow circle. She looks up at the moon, then sighs and sinks to sit on the concrete half wall separating the row of shops from the beach beyond.
I angle around and sit next to her, my leg nearly touching hers. “Run out of ideas?”
She shakes her head, still gazing at the moon. “Ran out of people.”
Oh.
Oh.
