Page 11 of Fruitbat

“This is it.” I wing my arms out and slowly spin. I hate to admit, this is what my life has become.

His cheeks lift, under squint eyes, and that wide intoxicating smile beams. He’s brighter than the sun and his gravity has a hold of me.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been here. —We must know each other from somewhere else?” He chews his lip and rocks on his elbows, studying me intently with apatite eyes. I bet they match the crystal I have at home, right down to its purpose of attracting joyful energy. The little gem isn’t so successful at its intention, but he is completely brilliant.

My darkness would only dim his light.

“Are you sure?” He’s definitely familiar but I can’t place him in any memory. I’m usually sharp, when it comes to recalling faces and their associations, so it’s baffling.

I’m probably still shattered from the fall?

“Maybe you’ve come in and just don’t remember?” I ask.

He stares at my face, puckering his lips.

My cheeks singe and my dart away, spotting an askew shelf of crackers that I hadn’t noticed earlier. I desert my post and make the convenient adjustments, scoping out the rest of the aisle for more tasks to busy myself.

I turn back, but he’s still draped over the counter, arching his back, and peering at me from behind his shoulder. Presenting his perfect ass, on display, and I’m hungry. If he doesn’t get out of here soon, I’ll devour him.

“Wait, do you know Trent Wagner? Were you at his and Chad’s wedding?” Si rises onto his hands and his back caves deeper.

Fuck me…

I bite my lip, shaking my head, “No.”

Si flips over and lays back, stretching his shirt wide open, above and below the fastened buttons across his navel.

Is he posing on purpose? Tease.

“I have no idea who that is.” I drop my chin and stare at a box of cheesy bits.

“Hmm . . .” he does a slow lap around the gift card display, dragging his finger across the glossy cards. They clap back and swoon under his touch.

I need that finger to drag across my skin.

I tug down the hem of my insufficient shirt, but it won’t hide the lump forming in my jeans, so I twist away and fill another paper cup with a slow trickle of steaming brew, until my excitement subsides.

“Would you like a coffee?”Why am I offering? He really should get going.

“It's so quiet. You don’t play music while you’re working?” Si stands with feet firmly planted at shoulder width, his ass cheeks clenched and his long torso convex, extending his flat belly forward on his hip bones, as he studies a random gift card with furrowed brow and pursed lips.

The room spins for a second, so I lean on a shelf until my blood finds its way back up to my sensible head, and I’m steady enough again to answer.

“I do. Delila—on second shift—likes to work in silence.” I shuffle into the back office and flip the stereo on, peeking back out to the shop floor. “Any requests?”Why do I keep inviting him to stay?

He shrugs and smiles. “What do you usually listen to?”

“Good question.” I twist the dial and find a familiar beat, turning the volume up . . .

A raucous voice bellows lyrics about fucking like animals.

Oop! Not that!I quickly turn the dial further, until a yacht rock ballad from decades past, serenades us from the ceiling.

“Oh. —I love this song.” Si calls back.

Of course he does.I giggle to myself before turning back to Si.

Xylophone keys chime over a smooth rhythmic beat, counting notes, and a saxophone wails the sweet melody. A whiny singer begs to sail away to where they’ve always heard it could be free.

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