I often wonder who they are and where they come from. Are they teachers, bankers, scientists? Or the guy who stocks the shelves at the supermarket?
That’s my problem. My head has a story for everyone I see in the world. I blame my dad. He had the wildest imagination, and I obviously inherited it. Every night when he put me to bed, instead of reading me a story, he would make one up. Sometimes it matched the pictures of the book I picked, but most of the time we didn’t even bother with a book. Mom would complain every night when I would be giggling loudly or shouting out to the imaginary dragon that I was riding to fly higher in the clouds. I can still hear her words in my head.
“Rhett, you are supposed to be putting her to sleep, that’s why they are called bedtime stories!” Her voice would waft down the hallway from the kitchen where she would be cleaning up from dinner. She tried to sound angry, but all there was in her voice was love. For me and even more for my dad. They were perfect for each other.
I slowly creep up on Coco and attach the lead that I tried to put on her before we left the backyard this morning. Some days we don’t need it, but obviously today is not one of them. Luckily, she is still looking out to the sea. Her focus seems to be on the lone surfer that is to the right of the group, sitting on his board, just watching and waiting for that perfect wave. The surf is a little rough this morning. There are reports of a hurricane coming, but they don’t expect it to make landfall. The ocean is always a good weather reporter for me. It fascinates me on so many levels.
“Coco, shush, you’re making a spectacle of yourself. No guy likes a girl who is loud and never shuts up.” She finally stops barking and looks up at me like she understands what I just said.
“Oh, now you want to listen?” I pat her head as she starts wagging her tail at me.
“One day we’ll work out this me-the-master, you-the-dog, relationship. In the meantime, can you just stop making me run? Otherwise, you’ll be on your own, because I’ll be the dead lady, face first in the sand after my heart attack.” She looks up at me and gives me one bark and then starts calmly walking towards home like I’m the one making a fuss.
“You think I’m the diva? Well, I’ve got news for you. If there was a prize for the sassiest dog in North Carolina, you would take the gold medal.” I laugh to myself because this is my day beginning like normal. Me talking to a dog and actually thinking I’m having a conversation with her.
Yep, I’m officially a nutcase!
Looking out to sea again, I catch sight of the guy in the surf that Coco seems to have a thing for. He hasn’t moved. He’s just bobbing up and down on the waves and staring straight at me.
Fuck.
I don’t want to draw attention to myself, but I can’t look away. I know who he is. Well, I don’t know know who he is, but I know who he is on sight. It may or may not have something to do with me spying on him every morning and afternoon from my porch as he strips beside his truck, getting in and out of his wetsuit.
I’m not purposefully looking… well, sort of. I mean, if some hot guy happens to park at the end of the parking lot closest to your house and is facing you every time he lifts his shirt, what’s the point in missing the show? Or the hot ass that bends over with his towel wrapped around his waist as he pulls his wetsuit up underneath it. I pray every day that it will accidently slip undone. I still don’t know… does he wear anything under that towel and wetsuit, or is it a commando thing?
“Shit!”
Stumbling forward, I nearly fall flat on my face as Coco decides she is going to run again. Except this time, she’s attached to me.
Bitch of a dog, I’m sure she does it on purpose. Probably because she saw me eyeing her surfer boy. I swear this dog is human, or at least wants to be.
“Coco, if you don’t slow down, you are not getting any breakfast!” My squeaky voice rings out as I try to keep up with her.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I say as she slows to a walk again. “I’m the boss, remember.” I’m trying to catch my breath again, and I let out a giggle. You would think walking every afternoon and morning—with this crazy dog that has me running half the time—would make me fit.
God, what must that guy on the board think of me? I’m probably his morning comedy relief. I’m the story he tells his work buddies when he gets to work.
‘Oh, you should have seen the crazy dog lady this morning, almost face planting in the sand when the dog took off on her.’
Hmm, what would his voice sound like?
I’m sure it would be deep and a little raspy, like the real rugged guy that he looks like. Trying to imagine him talking about me is a bad idea. My mind starts wandering to what he would sound like, except not talking to his buddies. That voice I can hear, but then it changes to his dirty talk. Fuck, I have been on my own too long.
That’s what they call desperation, when you are imagining a guy you have never met talking dirty to
