Clearwater Journals
Page 2
Even though it was overcast with a steady fine drizzle of rain falling, I decided to walk along the beach. The long wide strip of white sand was ripe with the warm smell of the sea salt and the partial remains of a decaying fish. There were only a few other people walking or jogging along the shoreline. Mainly tourists, I thought dismissively as I ambled quietly along the packed sand near the churning surf. A lone grey gull screamed protectively overhead and then swooped down upon the rotten fish carcass. Nature’s garbage men!
While I walked, I remembered the first time that I met Mia. She had greeted me at the entry to the restaurant, flashed that radiant smile with those brilliant blue eyes and led me to a table in her section. Mia was by nature gregarious. Our relationship had been built on those short, often humorous, verbal exchanges while I ordered my meal. To me, it seemed that she, like so many waitresses, young or old, was a natural flirt. I had watched her play with other customers in a similar manner—the Pretty Woman/ Cinderella dream of whores and waitresses everywhere—some good looking guy with more bucks than brains will come along and take her away from all this misery.
The banter between us had always been harmless and frivolous. There had not been anything sexual or suggestive in our exchanges—no hard line come-on. I had not seriously expected or even dreamed—well, perhaps I had fantasized a little—that anything would come of it. She had become a very pleasant diversion in my otherwise pretty ordinary day. She was the all-Canadian girl next door, but maybe not so innocent—and definitely not Canadian—the stereotypical tanned, blonde, blue-eyed young beauty with the firm, fit, petite body of a cheerleader or gymnast that every adolescent male dreams about at some time in his teens. Those days were a distant memory.
But I felt that there was something more to her—something beyond her obvious physical attractiveness. She seemed to me to be an intelligent individual with a quick wit and a neat sense of humour. It was only her eyes that tipped me to the fact that she had seen more of life than might be guessed at first glance. Shortly after we met, I found myself wondering why someone like her would have to take a job at IHOP. Now, after her invitation to meet her at nine, maybe I would find out. Or maybe I was reading more into her invitation than was actually there. If she thought I was the Richard Gere to her Julia Roberts, she was going to be disappointed. Throughout my meander towards home, I continued to play the various scenarios in my head. Whatever it was, I was already looking forward to meeting her again that night.
I had a few hours before I had to start back over to the IHOP. I wondered about driving over in the Jaguar. That would impress her. Too Richard Gere—the Jag would stay in the garage. I had a shower and a fresh shave, the second of the day, a personal record. I wondered what I should wear. I realized that I was more alive than I had been in more than a decade. Perhaps alive was not the word. More like curious or intrigued. Then, as I was wondering if this was going anywhere, I also realized I was being more than just a little bit silly. I mean there had been nothing more than an invitation to meet her after work so that she could honour her side of our agreement. She would tell me her story. I would make some appropriate comment and then, thank her. She would go home. I would go home—end of story. Tomorrow the Florida sun would shine and nothing would be different in my life or hers. Boy was I ever wrong!
A First Date in Paradise