❁ Junie ❁

Dietrich’s local cops are probably the nicest people in the world, but they ask too many questions and refuse to listen to my answers and end up asking them again.

They want to know why I attacked the gun-toting wiener who tried to rob everyone at the Flamingo Exit Diner. I tell them my behavior was instinct rather than explaining the more honest—embarrassing—reason.

I suspect they suspect I’m lying about what happened. Most definitely, they’re annoyed by how I won’t stop eating. Screw them and their judgments. I am a taxpaying citizen! I refuse to have them stand between me and my strawberry waffles.

The diner’s other regulars sneak out before the cops give the go-ahead. There’s Missing Front Teeth who uses the restroom and never returns. Daytime Hooker asks to go outside to have a smoke, and I catch her high-tailing it down the street. Even the hoodie-wearing hottie ditches the scene before the cops can interview him.

I’m forced to stick around for-fricking-ever. Finally, one of the officers insists on driving me home. After all, I’m so terribly shaken up, and he doesn’t think I should ride the bus.

“If you need anything, here’s my card,” he says while parked in front of my house.

Grabbing the card he hands me, I babble, “Sure. Thanks for the law and order you do for mankind.”

Before he can say anything else, I shut the door and skate away from the black and white.

My yellow multi-unit Santa Fe-style house sits alone at the end of a dead-end road. My closest neighbors are white-tail rabbits and an occasional gray fox. I’m relieved for the privacy as I use my skates’ toe stops to climb the outside stairs.

The cop remains out front until I disappear through a black, metal security door. After locking it behind me, I skate to the door of the first of two units on the second level. My bestie, Mallory, lives down the hall while my mom has the main floor.

Inside my place, I hang my messenger bag near the door and head to my tiny bathroom. The skates come off first, followed by my socks, jeans, shirt, and finally bra. Walking in only white panties, I shuffle to the next room where my bed awaits.

My nightgown is half on before I crash onto the mattress and yank a blanket over me.

Fate brought the thieving wiener into my life on the only day a month when I’m hormonal enough to go “No Wire Hangers!!!!” on him.

Now my day is over with only a long night of snoozing on the schedule. I will likely crawl out of bed for a snack around one in the morning. Otherwise, I am dead to the world, and everyone who matters knows to leave me alone. Except for my white and gray Persian mix, Couch Potato, a.k.a. CP, who climbs on my back and sets up shop for the night.

Tomorrow my sanity will return, and the Coffee Pot Incident of 2017 will be no more than a bad dream.

‧:❉:‧ ♂ ♀ ‧:❉:‧

As expected, I awake with a clear head and a new outlook on life. No more attacking criminals who interrupt my meals. With common sense back in the driver’s seat, I put aside thoughts about my behavior yesterday.

My day working as a technician at IT Zen blows by, and soon I head to the one place where I might catch grief for playing a tough chick when I’m nothing of the sort.

The main reason I frequent the Flamingo Exit Diner is my unease with chit chat. I’m good at nodding and smiling at people’s babble. My problem is the part where I’m expected to provide a tit for their tat. I’d rather keep my tit close to the vest, so to speak.

My waitress, Maureen, mentions the coffee pot incident, just so I’ll know the robber’s gun wasn’t loaded.

“You were never in any danger.”

“Okay. Can I have my waffles now?”

Maureen gives me a wink, but she does the same with everyone. No doubt her middle-aged flirtation guilt-trips men into leaving bigger tips.

I’m a notoriously inconsistent tipper. Whatever is in my pocket dictates the tip rather than how good the service is. That’s not how my mother raised me, though. She always gives solid tips to delivery men, and they flippin’ love her for it.

Losing out on their love is a-okay in my book. I’m satisfied with a smile or a wave from across a street. Up-close love brings the kind of clinginess I’d rather skip.

Years ago, Mallory’s indifference rubbed off on me, and now I’m slowly turning into an anti-social slob. My lifestyle is addictively freeing. No more caring about the opinion of others or focusing on what I don’t have rather than enjoying what I already possess. As incredibly freeing as indifference is, I can’t help wondering how I look when I see the hooded hottie in the back corner.

Mallory and I call him Hitchhiker. Though I know I’ve seen him somewhere outside of the diner, I can’t for the life of me recall where. He’s too old to be a high school wiener I’ve long since forgotten. He’s too sexy to be one of my old teachers. Who is he?

Then again, who cares? I’m able to enjoy his handsome face without having to worry he’ll open his mouth and annoy me with his not at all witty jokes or lame pick-up lines. I’ve found men are always so much more appealing from afar.

My waffles taste especially delicious today, making me wonder if the cook did something special to thank me for saving everyone’s wallets with my super amazing coffee pot move.

Come to think of it. The cook didn’t look so happy yesterday. What if he added something not-so-special to thank me for nearly getting everyone killed with my stupid coffee pot stunt?

If I puke up my waffles in a few hours, I’ll have my answer. Shoving every last potentially poisoned piece into my mouth, I play word search on my phone and think about the Hitchhiker. If my tantrum yesterday left him injured, I’d feel terrible. No doubt I’d still feel awful even if I later learned he was a serial killer luring people to their deaths by hitching rides. I mean, he’d be evil, sure, but what a handsome guy!

Leaving Hitchhiker, Maureen, and a possibly vengeful cook behind, I skate out of the diner. The bus stop is a block away. Soon, I’ll daydream during the 30-minute ride to my house. Before I reach the stop, I hear a man’s voice calling out to me. Or at least he’s calling out to “the lady on the skates.”

Swinging around, I figure I’ve dropped something again. I’m the most gracefully uncoordinated person on the planet.

Except Hitchhiker isn’t holding anything of mine. He stops following me and stares with eyes as black as the darkest night. If I ever have a crazed stalker, I want him to look this sexy intense.

“Yes?” I ask, enjoying the up-close view of my long-time fantasy man.

“I was in the diner yesterday,” he says in a deeply rich voice I feel all the way down to my curled toes.

Rolling closer, I place my hand on his strong shoulder and say in my most tender voice, “That must have been very traumatic for you.”

“You handled him well.”

“Yes, I did,” I say, squeezing his bicep as my hand moves down his arm. “I hope you weren’t too upset by the incident.”

Hitchhiker frowns, proving irritation is a very attractive look on his handsome face. His dark gaze studies where my hand now rests on his forearm.

“What made you react that way?” he asks, returning his gaze to my face.

“I can’t say.”

“Is it a secret or do you not know?”

“Both,” I say, squeezing his arm.

“How can it be both?”

“It’s a secret from even me.’’

The left corner of his mouth lifts before returning to a very appealing frown.

“I’m Junie,” I say, taking his hand and shaking it for about a minute too long.

“You’re very affectionate.”

“No, I’m really not,” I say, holding his hand with both of mine.

“Is Junie short for something?”

“No,” I lie. “What’s your name?”

The man blinks rapidly and then smiles. “Theo.”

“That’s a very handsome name for a very handsome man.”

“Your subtlety is astonishing.”

“Thank you,” I say, finally letting go of his hand. “Did you stop me today on the street for a reason beyond needing tenderness from a stranger?”

Theo reveals a smile that rivals the sexiness of his frown. “I thought I could thank you for your quick thinking by taking you out to dinner.”

“Hmm… That’s a very forward move.”

Theo narrows his eyes, still smirking. “Are you telling me no?”

“Why would you assume I could say yes?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I could be married or a lesbian or very shy.”

“You felt me up pretty convincingly a minute ago. That answers your three options.”

“I feel up everyone. I’m exceptionally friendly.”

“Where would you like to eat?”

“I believe men should pay for dinner. What do you do for a living, Theo?”

He gives me a death stare of panty-wetting proportions. His glare triggers the memory of where I’ve seen him before. Yes, my hypnotic hitchhiker is a very sexy liar, and I can’t wait to see what “Theo” says next.

“Are you familiar with the Gold Mart on 12th street?” he asks. When I nod, Theo continues, “It’s my job to stand near the road and wave a sign to draw attention to the store.”

His lie is so gloriously beautiful that I struggle not to laugh in his gorgeous face.

“That’s minimum wage, right?” I ask, remembering how many dollar signs he saw when his first software package was purchased a decade ago.

Still pushing his lie, he asks, “Is that a problem?”

“No, of course not. I want to ensure we meet at a place you can afford. Have you tried Willie’s Burnt Toast? They have yummy sandwiches at very affordable prices. We can share a meal if you need to.”

An amused Asher T. Ferrer nods at my suggestion. “What day and time?”

“How soon can you possibly meet me?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you there at four. Anything later and we’ll have trouble finding a table.”

Mister Moneybags doesn’t offer me his number or ask if I need a ride. He simply backs away, keeping an eye on me. I pretend he’s so taken with my sloppy beauty that he doesn’t dare look away. Of course, he might worry I’ll knock him over the head and steal his wallet.

Either way, I turn away before he does. Though I yearn to see his handsome face for as long as possible, I seriously doubt the bus will wait for me.