Page 32 of Lovetown, USA
But I can’t pay attention to them just yet. At the moment, I’m grabbing the wall, trying my level best to get my sea legs back. I’m rusty as hell, and while I don’t care about embarrassing myself, I do care about hurting myself. I might only be 38 years old, but my knees and my back don’t care. They feel every impact these days, so I have to keep it cute tonight.
I hobble around for a few minutes, then manage to get rid of the shakes. I do a few experimental glides across the low carpet. Okay. Cool. I got this. I’m almost graceful with it.
Then the DJ throws on “Laffy Taffy” and, being from where I’m from, I can’tnotget my ass out there on the floor.
I step down and roll, my body quickly remembering what to do. I’m smiling now, making a full lap like I do this every day.
A few of the grown boys check me out. Not bad. Not bad at all. My hips join the party. I snap my fingers to the beat. I’m having fun. This doesn’t suck.
Then someone crashes into me.
It’s not a soft bump. It’s a full-on shoulder check withThis! Is! Sparta!energy.
I go down hard, hitting the floor on my hands, thank goodness. A jolt of pain flares through my right wrist, but it’s not too bad. It’s not broken.
My pride is, though.
I’m starting to feel like this town is lowkey rejecting me, one injury at a time. And, okay, maybe the first one wasmyfault, but I’m sensing a pattern here.
“Shit,” I mutter as I sit up, clutching my wrist.
A voice above me yells out, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”
I look up and into the wide, apologetic eyes of the most strikingly beautiful woman I’ve ever seen outside of my mirror. She’s sporting rich brown skin, a fresh twistout, and curves that fill out every inch of fabric on her body.
She holds out her hand, pulling me to my feet with an ease that makes me self-conscious about my own strength. Or lack thereof.
“I seriously did not mean to do that,” she says, brushing her hand down my arm like she’s cleaning dirt off of me. “I owe you a drink.”
My ears perk up as a smile breaks out across my face. I’d been thinking about a dirty martini.
“Come on,” she says, pulling off before I have a chance to answer. I follow behind her all the way to the concession stand, where she disappoints me by ordering two Cokes.
I know this place is often frequented by kids, but it’s adult skate night, for God’s sake.
She grabs both drinks and leads us to a high-top table. Our cups are covered with cartoon hearts, of course, and the straws are striped pink and red. I roll my eyes and take a sip, sneaking glances at my striking new friend. Those doe eyes. The diamond stud in her nose. That bright white smile.
“I’m Shayla,” she offers.
“My Shaylaaaa.”
She laughs at my corny joke, sarcastically quipping, “That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”
While we drink in awkward silence, I get it in my head that I can do an impromptu interview with my new friend Shayla, but as I try to recall the questions I’ve been asking folks, I’m stonewalled by the loud music.
“I’ll be honest,” I yell. “I’d prefer a real drink. Are there any bars around here?”
She doesn’t even waste time thinking about it. “Across the street. Meet me at the front entrance in an hour?”
“Absolutely.”
She finishes her Coke skates off, and I spend the next hour collecting phone numbers. Some of the grown boys are cute, some are trying way too hard, and one is so buttoned-up and stiff, I peg him for a youth pastor in disguise.
I’m ten minutes away from a dirty martini and some Lovetown tea when the DJ cuts the music and starts a round of silly games. My mind goes back to bingo night and I realize this corny shitis part of the city’s infrastructure at this point. The scam is scamming hard.
I take the opportunity to get the hell on, turning in my skates before I retreat to the restroom to freshen my makeup. By the time I reach the exit, Shayla is waiting for me.
“Ready?” she asks, her eyes shining in the bright lobby lights.
