Lighthouse Nights

12

sunday afternoon; hot as balls. trevor focused the binoculars on jules and gabe. he ran his finger up the walkie-talkie’s ear-piece volume knob, but the rushing waves created an electric hiss that muffled their words.

her wig was sandy before she even arrived at the beach. once upon a time julesie would have slugged him on the arm for accidentally spilling soda on the pristine hairpiece. now, even from his distant hideout in the beach parking lot, he could see the beginning of a rat’s nest above her left shoulder. he would untangle it tonight.

instead of boots, jules wore flip-flop sandals. not hers. there were no bracelets on her right arm, but her left wrist caught a silver glint of sunlight and proved she was still wearing his gift.

hoards of blurry beach bums crossed the binocular’s eye line, but trevor never lost sight of the couple as they splashed in the shade of the lighthouse.

*  *  *

“—cute? i would— it was the— pink!”

moments ago, jules and the boy squeezed lake water from their soaking garb onto the sidewalk, then disappeared into the darling front door of a tourist-trap clothing store called “son of a beach apparel.” the microphone must have slipped into her backpack because every word was accompanied by an infuriating rustle.

“hell no. he— and then they killed— turned sixteen?”

trevor kicked off his right shoe. he pulled off the sock and itched the web between his big toes.

“—loved it. LOVED it.”

for an hour he waited outside that store; every passing minute—every garbled word and intimate spritz of laughter—pushed the itch further up his leg and torso until he pressed the torn stumps of fingernails into his skull.

“—dine with me? —steak and— vegetarian!”

*  *  *

jules wiggled her shoulders against the thin blue straps of her new cotton dress. her arms felt naked without sleeves or accessories and she compulsively checked her makeup in every reflective surface from the clothes store to the dune grass grill. at least the dress had a pocket on the waist; trevor-rule number six: always keep your cellphone on your person.

the window booth provided a decent view of the lake, pier and tapering violet horizon. across the table, gabe filled a napkin with intricate doodles. the backpack sat between their feet.

she scanned the menu for a salad, but found herself distracted again by merry-go-round musings of the suicidal boy, the new cotton dress, and the impending night. gabe appeared less boney in the salmon button-up than he did in the t-shirt now tangled with her own wet clothes in the “son of a beach” plastic bag. he held up his menu to point out the veggie burger, but her mind was busy dodging the habitual desire to scrutinize his sex appeal like she was eleven again, ranking the appearance, dress, potential cock size, and “marry-ability” of every stud on entertainment news. this boy could never pleasure her in that way; trevor barely could and he was TWICE the man. it wasn’t the mens’ fault; jules turned pro at nine after a surprisingly successful experiment with the sprinkler head in the neighbor’s plastic kiddie pool. the epiphany sparked further tinkering; turkey basters, q-tips, electric toothbrushes and appropriately-shaped vegetables began dominating her nights while the other kids played hide-and-go-seek in the junkyard. now, trevor got her hotter than any carrot ever could, but “hitting the right place” was rarely his aim, and when he was done, he was done.

gabe ordered the bleu-cheese burger and a cherry coke. jules requested the caesar with light dressing, no chicken and extra croutons.

he showed her a detailed napkin-sketch of her wrist, hand and watch, then he crumpled the drawing, sipped his drink and said, “the dress looks nice.”