In Principio

Betsy's Organics-- unfinished

"Is that the last crate?" Baz asks as he hauls the last box of fresh produce into the truck.

"Yep. You're all set to go!" replies his mother, a bit too cheerily for Baz's taste that early in the morning. But then again, his mother's always overly enthusiastic when it comes to the family business, regardless of when or where. Farming has been her passion ever since she had held her first fistful of dirt, and she spread that with her son, immersing him into the lush, peaceful life at a very young age. Baz loves it too; the joy of bringing things to life makes him feel at home, but he has other plans. Farming isn't what he envisions himself doing in the future as a long-term career, but for now it is all he has.

Baz shuts the riveted steel doors and climbs into the front seat. Starting the engine, he waves goodbye to his still-smiling mother as he backs out and drives the truck to Betsy's Organics.

✵✵✵

Betsy's Organics receives shipments from the Pitch Farm every Wednesday and Sunday, and it's always Baz's duty to deliver. He's been doing this for a few months now, but the girls never seem to tire. Every time Baz stops to unload, there's a small cluster of girls at the juice bar giggling and throwing flirty glances in his directions. He always smiles to be polite and even engaged once or twice (stopping after one of the girls tried to kiss him), but never really does much more, feels much more. It isn't that they are unattractive- they bring a lot of attention in their bikinis and bronze skin; he just doesn't bat for that team. Which is probably why today's visit was particularly anxiety-inducing.

Baz parks the truck on the roadside, meaning he had to carry the few crates across the sandy beach a couple shops down and into the back of the juice bar. As he hauls the first one out and begins walking, he sees the huddle of teens already awaiting his presence. Baz grimaces and continues in his Bermudas and sky blue v-neck, the sun beating down over his inky curtains and tanned face.

At a nearby table, a group of boys chill with their drinks, eyeing the pleasant beauties strolling by and laughing as one gets straight up rejected. But Baz is momentarily dazed by one in particular, his hair a crush of golden, unmanageable curls, his face dusted lightly with freckles that pop in the bright sun. As if he can sense Baz's gaze, he turns his head slightly to look at Baz, those piercing ocean eyes crinkling against the glare while a small smile curls along his lips.

Baz flushes, hoping that the heat can cover it up, and goes back to set the citrus crate down. When he comes around, the boy (Simon, he hears someone say) is already slipping away towards Baz as he mutters something to his friends, who nod but don't question him any further as they continue raking their gaze across the beach for new finds. Simon approaches Baz with a friendly smile and offers to help Baz unload the crates.

"It's fine, I've got it under control, but thanks," Baz replies as smoothly as he can in the presence of the guy. God, he looks like he came out of a Hollister magazine and doesn't even know it, Baz thinks. Simon smiles again, like he can't help it, and they light up his whole face as if he's done it a thousand times that day. Which he may have, Baz supposes, considering how there are a thousand girls on this beach who are very clearly straight, unlike you. But for some reason, that doesn't stop Baz from smiling back and talking to Simon, even if he's probably not gay.