by Mary Potter
Chapter 4
JEREMY
H ow do I consider my encounter with Monica? That’s on my mind the rest of the day. I think about our interaction. I don’t log the incident in my notes because I don’t think saving a dog from being a dog is worthy of a footnote in my daily logs. Little did I know, it turned into something outside my control. It goes way beyond my understanding of lightning-speed social media posts. I can’t stop thinking about Monica. I didn’t see a ring on her finger. If she looked for a ring on mine, the bike gloves covered my palms and upper knuckles.
I leave her to walk the cute dog back into one of the expensive historic row houses facing the park. If she lives there, how is it I never saw her before today?
I’m finishing up my day when a patrol cruiser pulls up to the police kiosk in the park.
“Nice work today,” Benjamin says. He’s one of my closest friends. He’s driving with his partner, Corey, leaning over to see me through the driver’s side window.
Jeremy got lucky in love the night he and I went to see a new hot band performing at a club downtown. The five-man band failed to perform that night. They spent their time fighting offstage instead. I got to break up the fight, take the names and statements－Jeremy got the girl. Sarah is a knockout. She’s a successful novelist, and Jeremy is someone I admire and respect. He’s got the girl and the whole package. I got a bike, and the world-wide internet to keep me company on lonely nights.
“I don’t think anything happened,” I say.
“Well, that’s not quite accurate.” Corey cues a video on his smartphone.
He hands it to me, reaching over Jeremy. I take the phone and watch from a shaky hand-held camera. I see me on the bike racing by Monica. Everyone in California has something to do with the movie industry. I get a budding camera operator to take an action shot of me saving Lady Ginger from a runaway delivery truck. The only thing missing is the overlay music and sound effects. The camera caught the entire exchange between me and Monica. It zooms in on Monica’s face as she watches me ride back into Golden Gate Park.
I hand the phone back.
“Okay,” I say. “So what?”
“That’s got over six thousand hits since this morning,” Jeremy says.
“You’re trending,” Corey adds.
“That’s okay.” I don’t know how to respond to it.
We cops know through our training in most interactions with people we’re recorded. Many officers in high-risk situations have body cams. I got a siren and strobe lights. I wear body armor, but no on-board camera.
“This is great,” Corey says. “It’s a great shot of you doing something awesome.”
“Who’s the girl?” Jeremy asks. He’s staring at me because he saw the communication between Monica and me.
“She’s a part-time dog walker and a barista.” I take out her business card. “She works at the shop on Union Street.”
“You need to go there,” Jeremy says.
“I’ll think ab—”
“No,” he says interrupting me. “Go, tonight. Right now if you’re off duty. Don’t over-think it. Don’t wait. Go.”
“She’s pretty hot,” Corey says. “I think I see her nipples in the video.” He flashes the smartphone stuck on a scene showing Monica’s face as she stares longingly after my departure. It’s true; her nipples are included in the shot.
“Okay.”
MONICA
I have the weirdest day. We have more customers than typical on a Thursday. It got heavier around noon. By the end of my shift, the line of patrons winds out the door. I can’t work fast enough. My boss wants me to stay after my shift. I text my landlord to let her know she has to take Lady Ginger for a walk. I’ll make it up to her later.
I wear the customary apron, and fortunately the uniform isn’t more than a t-shirt. I wear an oversized shirt with the company logo. I find it’s easier than something too tight. I tie off the shirt at my hip on the left side. It gives me comfort, and guys like that it shows my hips. I know the black stretch pants expose the slopes of my rear. I like men looking, but I don’t want jeering or comments in poor taste. I had to empty the gallon-sized tip jar twice during my shift. Something different has happened. I don’t know what it is, but I like it.
“That cop was sexy,” a girl says when she exchanges money for iced coffee.
“What cop?” I ask. I think of Jeremy, but how would she know about him.
“The cop who saved your dog this morning,” she says with a smile. She puts a dollar bill in the jar and moves off.
“Thank you,” I say. My mind races. I think about the exchange in the park. I don’t know how other people know about it.
I go back to work. It’s all reflex when you’ve worked as a barista for a few years. It’s not complicated. Patrons make it more complicated than it’s worth to explain. You get regulars who know what they want. You get the gawkers who haven’t decided on options before they’re ready to order. You get the tasters who think they know, but can’t decide between the flavors—if they want flavors. You get intuitive about what people want. It’s like muscle memory behind the counter. In front of the counter, you get the occasional customer who needs to wear hot beverages more than drink it.
“Hi,” he says.
I look up to see Jeremy standing at the counter. I’m worked up and a little sweaty under the watch cap I wear to tuck up my hair during my shift. It’s snappy and stylish. It serves the purpose with fashionable flair. I tried on a lot of hats, caps, and pullover knits. The 18th century watch cap is a great addition to my work attire.
“Oh, hi, Jeremy.” I say his name for me more than acknowledgment. I remember him. I can’t get him out of my head. Someone else recognizes him from the line.
I see him shake hands with a few customers. There’s the flash of a camera phone. It’s as if he’s a star and the paparazzi chased him into the place.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
He leans forward and whispers, “I don’t know.”
“I get off work in about an hour,” I say. It’s bold and I feel flushed for saying it.
Jeremy’s face brightens. He’s ignoring the people trying to get him to look their way. “I’ll wait,” he says.
He orders a simple chai tea latte, a man who likes a little sweetness with his spicy tea. I like that. I like that Jeremy says he’s waiting. He drops a $5 in the tip jar and moves away from the counter.
I try to get back into the rhythm, but my mind’s floating through this latest exchange and the one earlier. People recognize him. They recognized me throughout the shift. It’s a strange experience, and I still don’t fully understand what’s going on. I hope when the day ends, things will make sense again.
Chapter 5
JEREMY
M onica’s like a beautiful machine when she’s working. I get to see her in the groove before I reach the counter. I see her hourglass figure visible with the shirt tied in a knot on her hip. She’s wearing the skintight black Ponte leggings. I have to get close to the counter to see how the stretchy material shows off her ample ass cheeks. She’s got a heavy top, and I know from our earlier experience her aureoles are the size of half-dollar coins. Monica is a vision, and I think its sheer dumb luck we met.
I’m busy during the rest of her shift. It’s a strange experience interacting with people out of uniform. They know me from a stupid video that someone shot and posted on the internet. Yet, they talk to me, shake my hand, like we’re all old friends. I got a call from my shift supervisor, who got calls from reporters. They want puff pieces, and a positive image for the police department goes a long way. All I want is a little more time with Monica.
When she leaves the shop, Monica is one of the last few people there. I stand a few meters from the entrance as the coworkers, and presumably, the owner, lock up. Monica’s wearing the watch cap, her tussled champagne-blond hair spirals out in thick strands that came loose during her front-line battle with customers.
Monica grins when she sees me waiting near the bus stop canopy. She’s wearing the tight tank top that gives away her small waistline, wider hips, and ample top. It is after nightfall, and a mild summer breeze from the ocean manages to wash up Union Street.
“It’s been crazy all day,” she says. Monica holds up a nylon zipper pouch. It’s the kind used for bank deposits. “I don’t have room in my purse for all my tips.”
“Let’s not advertise,” I say.
We match our pace—the top of Monica’s head level with my shoulders. I take slower, smaller steps to keep her from taking two steps for every one of mine.
“This is all because of you,” she says. It’s a comment about the bank bag.
“I saw the video,” I say. “I think people are making a big deal out of nothing.”
Monica pulls the cap from her head. She stops walking to shake out her hair. I’m mesmerized. Women who have long hair manage to captivate men when they’re natural. Her movements look like something out of a shampoo commercial. It’s ordinary for her, and enthralling to me. I think about the texture of her hair. I love how it falls in waves over her shoulders.
“I think it’s great. I mean, I’m so glad you were there today. It would have been the worst day of my life. But you did something that’s everyday to you, and people get joy out of your heroism. Don’t undermine people’s joy.”
“I didn’t think about it like that.” I can’t stop thinking about Monica. I watched the video once more since Corey showed me. “My supervisor says she scheduled for interviews with local reporters.”
Monica nods. “That’s good. It makes people happy.” She presses her palm against her chest. Again, it’s innocent, I know, she doesn’t know I’m thinking about her hand against her cleavage. She’s herself. Monica gets to touch her breasts all the time, whenever she wants. “I’m happy. I know Lady Ginger’s happy, even if she doesn’t know it.”
I frown as Monica mentions the dog. “She’s not the brightest thing.”
“She’s from a long line of genetic changes that replaced brains for cuteness.” Monica shrugs. “I can’t change that.”
We walk a few more paces. I don’t know where Monica parked her car. I parked my car a city block in the other direction. The overhead streetlamp shines down on Monica like an ethereal light. Her eyes glisten.
MONICA
H e’s polite, he’s patient, and Jeremy is calm and relaxed about getting a glimpse of my breasts and hips. I saw him taking in the moment when I took off the watch cap. I feel the labor and coffee grounds clinging to my skin. I’m thankful for the cool ocean breeze that reaches us. I’m enjoying the night walk with my tall, handsome plain-clothed policeman.
“Can I walk you to your car?” Jeremy asks.
I smile and nod. “Where did you park?”
He waves behind us. “I’m back there. It’s no bother. You got that wad of cash to take care of,” he says. Jeremy stops short of ‘I’m here to protect you.’ And I feel that intense exchange between us like it’s part of the night. I see his forearms because he’s dressed in a gray Henley with the sleeves pushed up. I see his neck and clavicle and hints of chest hair from under the unbuttoned top.
Jeremy left work, got clean, and came to visit. I’m a sticky mess that smells like a roaster’s business and not like a girl. It makes me self-conscious because we’re standing very close to each other.
I start walking again, and I know Jeremy usually walks faster with a longer stride. It’s in the way he pulls back his shoulder and lifts his head. He’s practicing walking slower with shorter steps. I know I’m more succinct, but Jeremy makes me feel like I’m ten feet tall. We close the distance where I parked the clunker Ford Escape. It’s a hand-me-down from my parents. The company doesn’t make that style of the car anymore. I don’t care about the look of the four-door sedan. I take care of the vehicle, preventive maintenance. It’s old with a lot of miles. I’m a little embarrassed because Jeremy sees the real me when he glances at the back seat as I open the door. I have some binders, a business file box, and a few work shirts across the bench seat.
“We started something today,” I say. I don’t want Jeremy to think about the contents of my messy car. “You made people happy. Tomorrow it’ll be something else. We’ll get back to our everyday lives.”
I slip into the familiar driver’s seat with the tear in the fabric. I put down the window when Jeremy gently closes the door. He stands with his hands on the door. I resist touching his fingertips inside my car, inches from me.
“What if…” Jeremy says. He’s leaning down in the dark, watching my eyes. “What if I don’t want to go back to before I met you?”
Chapter 6
JEREMY
T here are moments in life when they get away, and you look back. Missed opportunities never repeated. It’s in those moments when you can see a different path, but stay the course, because you’re too far inside your own head to recognize the possibilities of change.
Then there are times when you can see the clear path before you. You see everything as if it’s time to make a decision, and you know in your gut that it’s the right thing to do, even if you’re unsure where the path leads. Or you’re too caught up in the moment to care for what’s beyond the line of sight. I find myself in that last part, when I think something is happening, and I have a choice to make.
I know if I let Monica leave without expressing my heart, she’ll find someone else. She’ll know what happened between us that morning isn’t anything more than a normal day. But I want more. I want a life with someone who gets the spontaneity and the serenity that means we have a choice between loneliness and companionship. I choose Monica.
“I want to know you. I want to know who you are,” I say.
It comes from a place inside that gets women and knows them better than me. It’s deep inside, and it’s confident and practiced. I’ve had a few women in my life, a few relationships based on good intentions that failed. I want someone attractive and attracted to me. She’s younger, but she’s wise. I don’t care about her messy car. I don’t care that Monica smells like the inside of a coffee tin. I care that if I let her go at that moment, she’s out of my life forever. I can’t have that.
But my mind backpedals. I have a second to realize what I say, and I’m tripping over my words before I know it means I look like a fool to Monica. I’m standing outside of her car, and I don’t want to let her get away. I’m no better than the creeps in the park, checking out the girls lying in the sun. They want a glimpse between their legs. I can see Monica’s thighs sitting behind the wheel, and all I want is more.
“How about we get—”
“Coffee,” she says. Monica laughs. It’s like a pure sound of happy harmony.
“I wanted to say, dinner,” I say. I let go of the car door. I’m releasing her from captivity. She can get away if she wants. “Maybe, sometime, if you want,” I add. I feel like that magic moment bursts.
“How about I take you to get some local crusty sourdough dipping sticks?” Monica asks. “There’s a great restaurant nearby that makes world-class sauces and sticks. We’ll spend some of my tips, and I can treat you.”
“How can I say ‘no’ to that offer?”
MONICA
I t’s not about how we got there; it’s the fact we’re still together a few hours later. We’re the last to leave the eatery on Market Street. I don’t want the night to end. In all the time we spent together, we’ve talked little about our pasts. We spend more time chatting about the present and the future.
I get the impression Jeremy wants to kiss me. It’s in the way he keeps looking at my lips. I’ve teased him throughout the night. I like that he wants me. I feel it between my thighs. It’s the familiar warm fuzzy feeling that I wake to occasionally before sunrise. It’s that time of the day where I got enough sleep, and I can masturbate before I go to work. I look back on that morning and realize that with my adventures with Lady Ginger and meeting Jeremy, I didn’t
touch myself that morning. The moment I think about it, goosebumps burst over my arms and up my neck.
“Are you cold?” Jeremy asks.
I snicker, because if I told him the truth, I’d get a different response from him. It’s still kind and caring, but it’s very naughty, and I like it.
“I’m thinking about something, that’s all,” I say. It’s titillating, and I give Jeremy another glimpse of my tongue against my lips.
We find ourselves walking again. It’s a warm night, and I like the feel of the gentle mist from the bay against my exposed skin. I don’t care what time it is because I don’t have to work Friday.
My fingers lightly brush against the back of Jeremy’s hand. I feel another explosion of goosebumps. I know he’s watching, because I feel the intimate sensation of material against my nipples. It’s that view of me in the same tank top I wore this morning. The amateur cameraman caught me watching Jeremy. My profile and my heaving breasts with two sharp points against the top; it doesn’t embarrass me. I’ve lived with a lot on top for a long time, and I know men look and like it. Sometimes women comment. I figure as long as my boobs aren’t too big to make my back ache at the end of the day, what I have is just right.
Jeremy’s fingers reach out. I close my hand around his hand as we’re walking. I want to feel more than his big hand in my little hand. I know a little something about proportion, and from what I’ve experienced earlier, I can’t help but think about his cock as we’re walking. I sigh and hum a little.
“Are you okay?” Jeremy asks.
I stop walking. We’re downtown, too far from our cars to go back. We’re in a business district with several closed boutiques. I see our reflection in the bay window of a shop that sells thrifty clothing. I want him, but I don’t want to throw it all out there.
“Can I have a kiss?” I ask. “I can’t expect anything more. I need a shower, and I need a perspective. I only just met you, yet I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t want this night to end. I don’t have to work in the morning. I’m going to see you again sometime because I know now you patrol the park on a bicycle,” I confess. I don’t know if I say it aloud or if my thoughts are so loud inside my head that Jeremy hears me.
