19
Money falls from the sky and lands in the gutter.
A WEEK LATER
Wesley's last delivery is at five today, so I'm meeting him at the parking lot where Layla is now renting space for the milk delivery truck, which she is also renting. The lot is just two blocks down the street from our apartment, and I managed to catch the earlier bus home from work so I can surprise Wesley before he heads home for the night. Plus, I want to see him in uniform, but I'll keep that thought to myself.
His schedule is changing daily, so we've been on different timetables for the last few days, leaving us to converse through texts or phone calls.
I've been keeping myself busy at night, doing my best to avoid the thoughts of Wesley delivering milk to these thirsty women all day. The little voice in my head keeps reminding me he's on display all day and I'm the only one who can't see him. Without intention, Wesley is toying with my confidence, bringing me to a level of shame. I think the bottom line is, I like him more than I've admitted.
It looks like I made it in time since I don't see the ridiculous baby blue milk truck. I don't even know where Layla found the damn thing. I went with her to pick it up last week, and I was the only one who had something to say about the way it looks, sounds, and drives, but I guess I'm the only who doesn't appreciate an antique when they see one.
I can't imagine Wesley enjoys his time in the truck every day, but I'm not sure he would complain. He's had a few funny stories about the deliveries, but nothing crazy. It sounds like the women receiving the milk are shy about their service call and more or less smile and giggle until he leaves.
The sound of a rumbling old engine grows from down the block, and the truck turns the sharp corner while pulling into the parking lot. His parking space is in the back under a security camera and light. Layla is paying extra to make sure there is no vandalism at night. I can't quite see into the windows when he pulls into the spot, but when the doors open, his cheeks are crimson, and his smile is one of embarrassment. “What are you doing here?" He sounds happy to see me but I sense there's something else going on too, something besides embarrassment.
He steps out, decked in his uniform—white paints that could pass for white body paint, a button-down shirt that looks to be two sizes too small, black boots, a red bowtie, and a sailor-type hat with an embroidered “Milkman" label on the front. His face shows exhaustion mixed with a dose of frustration though.
“Well, if it isn't the sexy business woman I've been dreaming about all day. What are you doing here?" A smile presses into the expression I caught before he saw me standing here. “Not that I'm complaining."
“I got home earlier and I wanted to meet you," I tell him, bouncing on my toes to keep warm.
“You would have seen me anyway," he says, leaning forward to kiss me on the cheek. “A customer wasn't home today, so I have an extra order of milk I need to drop off to Layla.”
There's something off about the way he sounds, and his mannerisms. He still seems tense, and I'm wondering what's going on. “Are you mad that I'm here? I probably hould have given you a warning first."
“No, no, I—I look like a—"
“Hot as hell milkman," I utter while straightening his bow tie. Wesley's cheeks turn a light shade of pink. “When did you become so bashful?"
He shakes his head and makes his way around the back of the truck. “I don't know. The job is just weird. It's great money, but I don't know."
“I'm sure you'll get used to it."
He gives me another once over and smirks at me. “God, you're gorgeous," he says, inspecting me as he opens the back gate where the milk supply is. “How was work for you?"
I love the way he looks at me. There's something about the honesty in his eyes when he gives me a compliment like it's not just a line. He makes me believe what he says, and it's different from past experiences. “You're quite a charmer, huh? Work is good. I like it there. It's all women and just a relaxed environment."
“Yup, same here," he says with a sigh. He works with all women so far too, but I'm not sure about the relaxing part.
Wesley pulls out a wooden crate made to hold six glass bottles of milk. “People enjoy drinking milk out of glass bottles, huh?"
“It is friendly to the environment, and it tastes better than plastic," he recites in mockery. “I believe these are the reasons the customers use when telling their husbands to get onboard with the idea."
“Makes sense, I guess." What is going on? Something is just not right.
With the milk in his hand, he grabs a bag from the back and throws it over his shoulder. “I've been changing into my normal clothes in the back of the truck before heading home at night, but since I'm going to your place first, I'll change there if that's okay? Getting on the subway like this isn't happening."
“Sure, no problem," I tell him.
We head toward my apartment, and I notice all the people walking by and their gawking stares as if they have never seen a milkman before. I mean, he looks like the stripper version of a milkman even though he's fullyclothed, but still. He's a model, so I'm sure he's used to people staring. Plus, he was once a stripper, which is funny. I keep thinking I'll end up working as a stripper throughout one of my six careers, and it seems Wesley has the same situation going on. At least he can cross that job off of his career list though.Maybe I should just get it over with too.
“Are you sure everything is okay? You don't seem right." His tension seems high, and he's acting the same way he was the first day I met him at the office before the photo shoot. Maybe this is just a mindset of being on the job kind of thing.
“Yeah, yeah, it's nothing," he says. Well, that means there is something. Only something can be nothing.
“We never got to have that talk you know," I tell him. After his day of shopping with Layla, unexpected things kept coming up. My mom needed me to come home for a night to help move my grandmother from one nursing home to another, and then he had things come up with his agent who he is still ironing out his issues with. Work started for him, and then me, which brings us to tonight, picking up from where everything paused.
