By Jake Devlin (~660 words)
“Excuse me. Have you --”
I open my eyes, perflutzed at the vision of stunning beauty silhouetted against the blue sky above the resort's pool. Her visor shades the top of her face, but I can tell she has a perfectly formed jawline, a perfect chin, full natural-color lips, a pert little nose, high cheekbones and what look like blue -- maybe blue-green; hard to tell in the shadow -- eyes. Beautiful eyes. Her long wavy blonde hair frames her perfect face perfectly.
Her tiny bikini top barely hides her nipples, which are hard and perky, inviting me to either reach out and tweak them or lean forward and nibble at them, one at a time. Should I start with the right one or the left?
No, no, no, I can't do that. It wouldn't be – uh – appropriate. Not until I know her better.
But why would someone who looks like her be interested in talking to someone who looks like me? Hmm. Maybe she sees something in me that a mirror can't show. Yeah, that must be it. She looks intelligent and probably intuitive, even with all that blonde hair. I'll bet she sees right through to the real me.
Oh, God, I hope not. I hope she just sees the me I let the world see.
Oh, yeah, she does; and she likes what she sees. I can tell by the sparkle in her eyes. Oh, yeah, she totally does.
So after a whirlwind courtship, we'll get married and I'll talk to my manager, get her a job as a greeter at the front of the store. After we save for a few years, we'll get a little house with a white picket – no, she looks daring – a PURPLE picket fence.
She's also a nymphomaniac, so our sex life will be amazing, and after a few more years, we'll have a couple of kids. By then, I'll have been promoted to at least assistant manager of the paint department, with a real salary, not just hourly, or maybe even manager of the whole store!
She'll look at me with admiration, even adoration, whenever she sees me. Not like that bitch Betsy – no, don't even think about her. She's long gone. Oh, yeah, long, long gone. LOOONNNGGG gone.
No, wait, not only a nymphomaniac, but she's rich, too. Super rich, mega rich, rich beyond your wildest dreams, inherited from her granddaddy's mattress handle business. So neither of us will ever have to work, never ever again. I'll stride right up to Dwayne, poke him in that fat stomach and tell him I'm quitting. Then I'll punch him right in the nose and pour a bucket of paint over his head – enamel, not latex, so he can't just wash it off – and I'll turn on my heel and leave, head held high.
We'll travel all around the world on our own private yacht, forty feet – no, fifty feet – no, SIXTY feet long; HUGE! And it'll have a crew of over a hundred to satisfy our every whim.
We'll have houses – no, no, no – we'll have MANSIONS all over the world, maybe some castles, and a whole fleet of airplanes, so we can go anywhere we want in just a couple of hours.
And we'll meet actors and actresses, writers, painters – the artist kind, not like our customers – kings and presidents, astronauts, models, singers, maybe hire that Justin –
“ – seen a blue scar- – oh, there it is! Lemme jus' – oops; sorry. Got it. Jimmy Lee, the wind musta blowed it under dis guy's lounge. Sorry ta bother ya, sir. Jimmy Lee, honey, wait up!”
Bitch! Tease! Caressing me with her boobs like that and then running off with another guy. Now I gotta track her down and send her to join Betsy … and the others. Bitch!