A Brief Intermission: A Romantic 4th of July Story
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was…?”
“Five months ago,” I admit sheepishly.
She picks her beer back up. “What movie did I see?” she asks, testing me.
I don’t know whether to admit I know and scare her, or lie and… well… lie to her face. “Star Fighters from Venus,” I mumble, avoiding her eyes as I look down at my cheap black movie theater manager shoes.
“Oh my God that’s right,” she squeals, and I’ve never heard her so… animated… before.
“I’d just moved into my new apartment,” she says, recalling the evening that changed my life. “I stood around, staring at all those boxes waiting to be unpacked and said, ‘Sca-rew this.’ I Googled the nearest theater and… Flickers Cinemas came up.”
“Good thing, huh?”
She nods, then pauses. “Why didn’t you… ever say anything?”
I blush. “Did I have to?”
She shakes her head. “Not really. I mean, you were pretty obvious.”
“What?” I sputter. “How?”
I thought I’d been so careful.
“You always reached for the licorice a little too quickly,” she says. “And quit asking me if I wanted butter after, about… my second visit.”
I chuckle, giving it right back to her. “So if you knew, why didn’t you say anything?”
She shrugs, reaches for her beer. Just then the first sizzle of a firework shimmers in the air behind me; I can see the reflection in her glasses and turn around, watching a single silver stream of light streak into the air before exploding into a shimmering, glimmering ball high above us.
I hear her “oohing” and “aahing” behind me and I suppose the hiss and boom of the fireworks covers the sound of her chair squeaking. And the cooler opening. And her opening two new beers. And her feet crunching on the gravel rooftop as she creeps toward me.
“Here,” she says and, startled, I jump. We laugh and she hands me a beer. “You’ve been waiting on me for five months,” she explains, face streaked with red and blue from the fireworks filling the sky above us. “I guess it’s time I finally return the favor.”
“Thanks,” I say as we turn and watch the fireworks.
I don’t remember when her hand creeps into mine. Just… one minute it’s next to it, brushing gently as we stand and stare at the glittering, flickering, sulfur night. Then, the next, her fingers lace between mine, warm and soft as I tremble with excitement.
Long after the fireworks end we stand there, staring at the haze of smoke that fills the sky above the ocean. I’m afraid that, if I turn and face her, try to kiss her too soon or do something stupid, the spell will break and she’ll run down the stairs and out to her car and drive away and never come back.
Finally we turn and face each other, her a few inches shorter, eyes soft and dewy behind her glasses. “Thanks,” she says, looking up at me. “That was… those were beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” I say, risking it all. She blushes and turns away, then turns back.
“You too,” she chuckles, her hand drifting from mine as she sinks down to sit on the roof’s wide cement ledge.
I sit next to her and we sip our beers, the night cooler up here, somehow. “What now?” she asks, kicking my cheap black sneakers with her red shoes.
“Well,” I say, looking at the cooler. “There are a couple of beers left, so we could sit up here till they run out.”
“Won’t your boss get mad?” she asks, knowingly.
“Mr. Herald spends every summer on a lake in Maine,” I say, “so until the first week of August, I’m the only boss around here.”
“That explains all this,” she says, nodding toward the star lights and cooler and me drinking on the job.
“Rank has its privileges,” I chuckle.
“And then?” she asks, smirking. “I mean, after the beer is gone and the ice is melting, then what?”
“Then…” I say, stretching out beside her. “I suppose I could start the movie up again.”
“Only if you watch it with me,” she smiles.
“That’s a given,” I say. “But first I could dish up some hot dogs, maybe make you one of my 4th of July Freezie Slush specials you so rudely turned down earlier.”
She sighs, contentedly, stretching her long legs out near mine. “Hot dogs are a traditional 4th of July treat,” she says. “And a little Freezie Slush to wash them down couldn’t hurt.”
“I agree,” I say, reaching for her hand again. She eases into mine, a perfect fit, warm and soft as the night around us.
“You shouldn’t have waited so long,” she says, squeezing my hand. “We could have been doing this for the last five months.”
“What can I say? I’m a slow learner…”
She laughs, the sound as sweet as ten Freezie Slushes, one after the other. The night plays out, long and soft, like summer itself. I could live on this roof, with these lights and this girl, and never come down.
The movie theater below may be filled with summer blockbusters, but after five long months, I’ve finally found my main attraction. And the reviews are in: two thumbs up!
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About the Author
Rusty Fischer is the author of A Town Called Snowflake and Greetings from Snowflake, both from Musa Publishing. Visit him at Rushing the Season, www.rushingtheseason.com, where you can read his FREE stories and collections, many about the fictional town of Snowflake, South Carolina.
Happy Holidays, whatever time of year it may be!!