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girlsoloThursday night, Kate wraps the bookend in kiddie socks to protect the details and a couple of yards of a hideous paisley print dress (the paisley’s fine, the dress is fashion assault & battery), tucks it in a plaid tote bag that’s only slightly less hideous and drags it with her to The Catscratch Club. She fends off a couple of interested glances, drinks until they won’t serve her, then stumbles toward the beach. She leaves the bag under the front edge of an empty hut, and spends the rest of the night listening to the waves and watching for the rescue boat that’s never going to come.
As the sun comes up, she ignores the runners, strips down to bra and panties and swims out. Maybe, maybe, if she’s really lucky, she’ll find the edge, like Truman, and this fake-world will come crashing down. Kate stops before she gets too deep. Whatever Magnus and Declan and Sam think, if she had a death-wish, she’d be dead already a long time ago. There’s a difference between thrill-seeking and suicidal.
Today, Kate’s neither. She swims back, arm over arm, until what should’ve been a nasty hangover is just thirst, and long before the sharks could get to her.
A gold retriever puppy greets her when she comes out of the water, yapping and curious, friendly. Crap. She misjudged. She needs to find her bag. The bookend, at least, was important to that kid. But the puppy wants to play and the lolling tongue reminds her of Ralphie. She wrestles with him in the sand for a few minutes. Scratching ears and belly and getting her face covered with doggie-kisses.
“Okay, kiddo. Go home,” she tells the puppy. It’s well cared for, so it’s definitely someone’s pet, not a stray. It’s cute, too. Sue her, she actually likes animals.
The puppy sits on the beach and watches her, tail wagging.
Kate sighs and flaps her hands at it. “Shoo. Go home.”
She turns her back and heads toward where she remembers leaving the bag, and the puppy follows. Shaking her head, she keeps walking. Maybe if she ignores him long enough, the little guy will head home.
When she does find the hut, one over, and pulls the bag from beneath it, she’s still got her tail. He barks, and Kate turns on him. “Shh! Quit it,” she barks back at him, voice sharp like she uses with Ralphie when he forgets he’s way too big for playing.
The puppy whines, dropping low to the sandy grass. A wave of guilt washes over her. Poor thing. “Sorry, kiddo,” she says softly and bends to pet him again.
She’s thirsty and the puppy’s tongue is hanging out. It’s not that warm but she doesn’t like the idea of leaving him like this. “Come on, show me home. Okay? Let’s get you some water, boy, okay?”
Whether or not he understands, when she starts walking back the direction the puppy came from he follows immediately, then charges ahead, running up to a hut almost on the beach with a surfboard outside, a little garden, and the dog’s collar that he slipped.
She crouches down and he comes running over, jumping up to lick her face again. “Fneh,” she says, laughing, and puts his collar back on, adjusting it a little so he won’t jailbreak again. “Sorry, pal. Now, let’s see if your people have some water for you.”
That little mission takes her inside the hut. She finds the water easy enough and drinks a bunch of it. Her brain gets sharper with every sip, but she goes out to give the little guy water before she comes back for a look around.
Two guys live here. Definitely a couple, only one bed in use. Kate knows plenty of guys who prefer guys, so she’s not surprised by the absence of pink or frilly or cosmetics. But everything in this place screams these two being gay is a crying shame. Maybe that’s why she decides to mess with them just a little. Maybe she just kind of likes them, in theory, and she’s pulling their pigtails.
Whatever.
She pokes around until she finds the toolbox under the bed. It’s empty, which is weird. They’re definitely tool guys, she thinks. Eh. She pulls her Swiss Army knife out of her pocket and unscrews the lid of the box. It’s a toss up whether to leave the bookend or the law book, but in the end, there’s something military or coplike about the place. She chooses the book and sets it on top of the box.
Usually, she puts that shit away, but she doesn’t push it all the way back under. Instead, she leaves it at the edge, pulls out her notepad and writes a note that she leaves propped against the bedframe.
Cute puppy. Not much of a guard dog. He led me right here. I adjusted his leash and gave him and me some water. Hope you don’t mind. We were thirsty.
The book belongs to Harry Potter’s Kate. Would you mind giving it back for me?
Kisses.
Kate ruffles the puppy’s ears and gets a few more of those on her way out.
As the sun comes up, she ignores the runners, strips down to bra and panties and swims out. Maybe, maybe, if she’s really lucky, she’ll find the edge, like Truman, and this fake-world will come crashing down. Kate stops before she gets too deep. Whatever Magnus and Declan and Sam think, if she had a death-wish, she’d be dead already a long time ago. There’s a difference between thrill-seeking and suicidal.
Today, Kate’s neither. She swims back, arm over arm, until what should’ve been a nasty hangover is just thirst, and long before the sharks could get to her.
A gold retriever puppy greets her when she comes out of the water, yapping and curious, friendly. Crap. She misjudged. She needs to find her bag. The bookend, at least, was important to that kid. But the puppy wants to play and the lolling tongue reminds her of Ralphie. She wrestles with him in the sand for a few minutes. Scratching ears and belly and getting her face covered with doggie-kisses.
“Okay, kiddo. Go home,” she tells the puppy. It’s well cared for, so it’s definitely someone’s pet, not a stray. It’s cute, too. Sue her, she actually likes animals.
The puppy sits on the beach and watches her, tail wagging.
Kate sighs and flaps her hands at it. “Shoo. Go home.”
She turns her back and heads toward where she remembers leaving the bag, and the puppy follows. Shaking her head, she keeps walking. Maybe if she ignores him long enough, the little guy will head home.
When she does find the hut, one over, and pulls the bag from beneath it, she’s still got her tail. He barks, and Kate turns on him. “Shh! Quit it,” she barks back at him, voice sharp like she uses with Ralphie when he forgets he’s way too big for playing.
The puppy whines, dropping low to the sandy grass. A wave of guilt washes over her. Poor thing. “Sorry, kiddo,” she says softly and bends to pet him again.
She’s thirsty and the puppy’s tongue is hanging out. It’s not that warm but she doesn’t like the idea of leaving him like this. “Come on, show me home. Okay? Let’s get you some water, boy, okay?”
Whether or not he understands, when she starts walking back the direction the puppy came from he follows immediately, then charges ahead, running up to a hut almost on the beach with a surfboard outside, a little garden, and the dog’s collar that he slipped.
She crouches down and he comes running over, jumping up to lick her face again. “Fneh,” she says, laughing, and puts his collar back on, adjusting it a little so he won’t jailbreak again. “Sorry, pal. Now, let’s see if your people have some water for you.”
That little mission takes her inside the hut. She finds the water easy enough and drinks a bunch of it. Her brain gets sharper with every sip, but she goes out to give the little guy water before she comes back for a look around.
Two guys live here. Definitely a couple, only one bed in use. Kate knows plenty of guys who prefer guys, so she’s not surprised by the absence of pink or frilly or cosmetics. But everything in this place screams these two being gay is a crying shame. Maybe that’s why she decides to mess with them just a little. Maybe she just kind of likes them, in theory, and she’s pulling their pigtails.
Whatever.
She pokes around until she finds the toolbox under the bed. It’s empty, which is weird. They’re definitely tool guys, she thinks. Eh. She pulls her Swiss Army knife out of her pocket and unscrews the lid of the box. It’s a toss up whether to leave the bookend or the law book, but in the end, there’s something military or coplike about the place. She chooses the book and sets it on top of the box.
Usually, she puts that shit away, but she doesn’t push it all the way back under. Instead, she leaves it at the edge, pulls out her notepad and writes a note that she leaves propped against the bedframe.
Cute puppy. Not much of a guard dog. He led me right here. I adjusted his leash and gave him and me some water. Hope you don’t mind. We were thirsty.
The book belongs to Harry Potter’s Kate. Would you mind giving it back for me?
Kisses.
Kate ruffles the puppy’s ears and gets a few more of those on her way out.
