Seafair

The second hand ticked up to the 12 as I poured another soda. I tried not to look at my watch too often, adult customers noticed and scowled resentfully. The minute hand dragged. 14 minutes before the end of my shift. I poured another soda for a sweaty eight-year-old in blue jeans and a striped tee-shirt. His crew-cut glistened in the mid-afternoon sun. I was grateful for the awning over the snack booth. In late August that sun would light the sky for hours after it sank behind the Olympic Mountains. I reached out, bending over the counter to hand the kid his drink and caught something dark out of the corner of my eye.

He leaned in his crackerjack uniform against the high fence enclosing the roller coaster. A car full of screaming teens flew by behind him. His white neckerchief ruffled briefly. His right leg was crossed over his left, right foot balanced on the toe edge of his spit polished black shoes. I sucked a breath in through my teeth. His wide bell bottoms lightly grazed the midway pavement. Each hip bone sported its own short vertical row of anchor-embossed buttons which were joined at the top by a horizontal row just below his waist. Crisp, clean lines of his uniform curved to his casual balance.

Sweat dripped a cool track down my back. His arms crossed, hands flat under his biceps, the flaring collar lay flat across his shoulders. The round sailor's hat, tipped forward on his head, looked almost ready to fall over his face. He was my height, and wiry. Under the dixie-cup cap his face was stone and his eyes burned into me hotter than the pitched pavement. He was staring so hard I couldn't tell what color his eyes were. Despite his relaxed pose, I expected him to pounce. I looked down at my plush flesh pushed up in a ping and red polka dot sweetheart neckline.

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