Lydia (unfinished)
She smiled at me, and my heart jumped. Then it started racing. She handed me my change, and I knew it was hopeless. She was maybe 18. I'm nearly 30 and haven't been on a date since . . . well, it's been a while.
Her hair was black -- dyed, most likely -- her skin flawless and smooth, her eyes a sparkly blue, her teeth . . . I could go on and on. I had this strange impulse to smell her. But it probably wouldn't do any good. After all, she works at Starbucks and probably smells like coffee. Besides, it may have been a while since I've been close to a woman, but I know they don't like being smelled.
I remember my dad asking me: "You ever been to the mall and seen these gorgeous women with these loser men? You ever wonder why these ugly guys get the beautiful ladies? Because the nice looking guys don't think they have a chance. They think she's already with someone, and she wouldn't give them the time of day. But the ugly dudes . . . they've got nothing to lose."
It was a day or two later that I had to ask myself why my dad told me that story. Was he trying to inspire me? Am I one of the ugly dudes? And since my dad married his high school sweetheart, getting advice from him on picking up women was like the Pope offering honeymoon tips.
Lydia, her name tag said. I thanked her as I took a few extra seconds to put the change in my pocket and stare at her amazing face. "See you tomorrow," I managed to say without sputtering.
She beamed at me, said "Okay!", then looked away to the next customer.
I was so absorbed in Lydia that I walked away, forgetting to get cream, sugar and a lid. I stood outside my car, fishing for my keys, looking down at my steaming hot coffee, wondering what I was thinking, and that now I can't go back in there without looking like a total dork. I don't mind looking like a partial dork, but a total dork is unacceptable.
Lydia.
-----
The next morning, I had to leave extra early for a drive into downtown. Fortunately, Starbucks opens at five, and I was there not a minute after, hoping this wasn't her day off. Or that she traded shifts with someone.
The door was unlocked, and the lights were on, that coffeehouse music playing over the speakers. I was the first customer. I approached the counter and stood, but didn't see anyone.
Probably in the back arranging the scones on a platter, or washing the cups for the morning rush.
I jingled my keys a little to see if that might catch anyone's attention, but --
A foot.
Behind the counter. On the floor.
A foot.
Black shoe, no sock. Bare ankle just below khaki pants. The rest is obscured by the pastry display.
I lean over and see the blood. A lot of blood. I thought she was wearing a red shirt, but it's the blood.
-----
The police pulled up within a minute and a half. The 911 dispatcher told me to go outside and wait, and that's where I was when they came. They had their guns drawn. I just pointed.
The first cop nodded, and he and his partner moved toward the doors.
God. Lydia.
(c) 2005 Eric Dalen
Her hair was black -- dyed, most likely -- her skin flawless and smooth, her eyes a sparkly blue, her teeth . . . I could go on and on. I had this strange impulse to smell her. But it probably wouldn't do any good. After all, she works at Starbucks and probably smells like coffee. Besides, it may have been a while since I've been close to a woman, but I know they don't like being smelled.
I remember my dad asking me: "You ever been to the mall and seen these gorgeous women with these loser men? You ever wonder why these ugly guys get the beautiful ladies? Because the nice looking guys don't think they have a chance. They think she's already with someone, and she wouldn't give them the time of day. But the ugly dudes . . . they've got nothing to lose."
It was a day or two later that I had to ask myself why my dad told me that story. Was he trying to inspire me? Am I one of the ugly dudes? And since my dad married his high school sweetheart, getting advice from him on picking up women was like the Pope offering honeymoon tips.
Lydia, her name tag said. I thanked her as I took a few extra seconds to put the change in my pocket and stare at her amazing face. "See you tomorrow," I managed to say without sputtering.
She beamed at me, said "Okay!", then looked away to the next customer.
I was so absorbed in Lydia that I walked away, forgetting to get cream, sugar and a lid. I stood outside my car, fishing for my keys, looking down at my steaming hot coffee, wondering what I was thinking, and that now I can't go back in there without looking like a total dork. I don't mind looking like a partial dork, but a total dork is unacceptable.
Lydia.
-----
The next morning, I had to leave extra early for a drive into downtown. Fortunately, Starbucks opens at five, and I was there not a minute after, hoping this wasn't her day off. Or that she traded shifts with someone.
The door was unlocked, and the lights were on, that coffeehouse music playing over the speakers. I was the first customer. I approached the counter and stood, but didn't see anyone.
Probably in the back arranging the scones on a platter, or washing the cups for the morning rush.
I jingled my keys a little to see if that might catch anyone's attention, but --
A foot.
Behind the counter. On the floor.
A foot.
Black shoe, no sock. Bare ankle just below khaki pants. The rest is obscured by the pastry display.
I lean over and see the blood. A lot of blood. I thought she was wearing a red shirt, but it's the blood.
-----
The police pulled up within a minute and a half. The 911 dispatcher told me to go outside and wait, and that's where I was when they came. They had their guns drawn. I just pointed.
The first cop nodded, and he and his partner moved toward the doors.
God. Lydia.
(c) 2005 Eric Dalen
posted by Eric at 2:39 PM
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