Page 1 of Barefoot Chaos
1
Hessa
"I thought you'd be...taller."
I smiled politely, covering my disdain through years of practice. I taught high schoolers, angsty teens sharpening their verbal sparring skills with no filter yet in place. I was used to thinly veiled insults and eye rolls.
And this knucklehead thought I wouldn't understand his "taller" comment.
Amateur.
The least he could have done was wait until we had sustenance before he commented on my looks. There went my chance at a nice dinner this evening. And I'd heard this place had killer calamari.
"I thought you'd be more gallant, yet here we are." I delivered a sugary sweet smile, thoroughly enjoying his confusion. I wondered how soon he'd whip his ancient Droid out of his drab corduroy pants and google 'galant'. I saved him the stealthy phone maneuver under the tablecloth and looked at my watch. "Oh, will you look at the time! I've got to get going. Thank you for the titillating conversation."
Before he could formulate a comeback in that tiny brain of his, I threw my napkin on my empty place-setting and grabbed my bag. I smoothed my hands over my ample hips, tugged my sweater set just so, and nodded my head like the Queen of England.
"Good day, sir."
And that's how my latest first date ended.
Actually, it ended with me in my pajama shorts, blanket wrapped around my shoulders, huddled in front of my tiny backyard fire pit grading papers. I still held out hope that one day, the heat of a man's touch sparking fireworks in my body would end my night, rather than an artificial flame put out by a tank of gas and a scratchy blanket that had seen better days. But it happened to be colder than a brass toilet seat in the Arctic, and I was nothing if not practical, so sandpaper blanket it was.
At thirty-one, I was beginning to lose hope in the hot man department. Thirty hadn't seemed so old, but tack on another year, and I'd transformed into an old maid, if only in my mind. The way I figured it, all the good men would have been taken by now, leaving me to navigate the water of divorcees with emotional baggage and ex's that had to be dealt with. I hated to be a cliché but the ol' biological clock was ticking and I desperately wanted to have children.
I'd become a teacher right out of college, having always known that something revolving around kids was in my future. I loved to watch a developing brain latch onto a concept, twisting and turning it over until they'd mastered it, then storing it in their temporal lobe. I could almost see their dendrites forming and growing, shaping their minds and in turn, shaping our future as a collective.
My personal need for stimulating, intellectual conversation lent itself to teaching the higher grades. The kindergartners seemed more interested in the placement of glue in unfortunate places. Not my cup of tea, thank you very much. I'd settled into a high school teaching job, focused on English and Literature. The past three years, I was given the golden apple of responsibility for all senior level English classes and more importantly, the senior projects.
Surf City High was known for having a senior project that was actually fun, depending on the day, for all parties involved. The project was called Care Dare, and it required an indecent amount of Care, though that wasn't why it was named as such. The work load fell directly on my shoulders, which was fine by me. If I had to be involved, I'd prefer to be the leader and in control of all aspects.
What's that? Control issues? No, definitely not. I just preferred things the way I liked them.
Currently, I was reading through my next batch of idiotic project proposals by my period four class. Granted, idiotic was a bit harsh, but sometimes I pondered if these kids, about to be set free in the world as card-carrying adults, scribbled out the first things to cross their sleep-deprived minds minutes before their papers were due.
The purpose of Care Dare was to interview a fellow classmate and develop a "Dare" of sorts that would enhance their lives. Most of us needed a solid push to leave the nest and fly. This was a safe environment for our seniors to develop the skill of interviewing (hello, job interviews!), along with spreading their wings and trying things that scared them. They'd be off at college or in the work force the following year and they needed guidance facing their fears and stepping into a braver, more mature version of themselves.
My job was to help them set up their interviews, ask intelligent questions, formulate an appropriate dare, and oversee their final report with conclusions from the program. The biggest headache was making sure these kids took the program with the correct level of thoughtfulness. There was a fine line to keeping one from phoning it in versus making a dare so debilitating that the senior couldn't complete it.
The new stack I was evaluating tonight held dares for anything from ice skating to confronting a deadbeat dad, eating a cockroach to working at hospice. Some of them were appropriate based on the fears and challenges gleaned from the interview process, while others were ridiculous in nature, or worse, so extreme as to be potentially harmful.
When my eyes glazed over, I set the pages aside, turned off the gas fire pit and took everything inside. I locked all the doors, turned off all the lights and went upstairs to my bedroom. I slid into bed, removing my glasses and placing them on my nightstand. The room went blurry and I let my mind wander.
I had this weird, yet delightful, ritual before bed where I'd lay my head down, close my eyes and let my mind travel to whatever struck my fancy. My favorite exercise was to indulge in what my life would look like five years from now. Who I'd be married to; what car I'd drive; where I'd live; how fabulous my clothes would be; what a bright, happy life I'd lead. I'd be asleep before I made it to naming my future children and I'd have a slightly better than average chance of dreaming what I'd been thinking about.
And that was how I woke up the next morning dreaming of hot chocolate. Doesn't everyone envision thick, sweet, rich hot chocolate late at night? You know, the fancy kind that makes you lick your lips and sip slowly so you can extend out the bliss hitting your tongue. Sunday mornings called for a walk down on the beach and today, the best damn hot chocolate in Huntington Beach: Chocolate Dreams.
I threw on a pair of sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt, and some flip-flops. A red Angels hat went over my bedhead and I threw my phone and wallet, plus some pepper spray (you just never knew) into a fanny pack, and I was ready to go.
There was a nip in the late October air, but I could tell the sun would be peeking out from behind the fog bank any minute now. I shivered as I walked along the cement strand parallel to the surf line. I should have worn a light sweatshirt, but I figured the lower temps would wake me up and make me appreciate the hot liquid magic (i.e.: hot chocolate) that much more.
When I pulled open the door to Chocolate Dreams, the waft of sugar hit me first, lifting my spirits. What hit me second was the eye candy lining the counter. No less than five male lifeguards, in their signature red shorts, stood talking to the blonde owner of the shop, a woman I'd seen on past visits. She was beaming and accepting congratulations from them, for what, it was unclear. I didn't particularly care as I drank in the sight of tan, muscular bodies filling out polo shirts in a way only a thirty-one year old single woman could appreciate.
My nose detected a faint smell of cologne mixing with the chocolate aroma and my body followed, like a dog on a hunt. Not that that was a metaphor I would have normally used, putting myself in the role of dog, but my brain was short-circuiting. I was surrounded by hot men and chocolate, the ultimate fantasy of every woman not concerned with staying a size two.
When I reached the back of the group, I stopped and waited patiently, presumably for my turn to order, but in reality, I just wanted to get close and breathe in their masculinity.
Don't judge.
