Page 243 of Banter & Blushes

This is usually the part where the smile creeps a little wider, where the compliment arrives—sometimes smooth, sometimes clunky, sometimes clearly rehearsed in a mirror. Then comes the casual question about when I get off work, or if I’ve ever considered modeling for yacht catalogs, or if I’d like to join someone for a naked sunset walk.

Awkward conversation and a side of mediocre-to-horrible flirting.

It’s not that I think I’m some kind of seaside siren. It’s just what happens when you’re a woman behind a bar in a beach town and you smile more than you scowl.

But…

It doesn’t come.

He just sips his drink again, elbow resting on the bar, gaze drifting toward the open doors like he’s watching the breeze play favorites with the napkins.

I blink.

Is he… not going to hit on me?

For a fleeting moment, I wonder if I forgot deodorant.

Subtly, I shift one arm.

No. Citrus vanilla, just like I remember applying this morning.

Okay. Good.

Did I brush my teeth?

Yes. I remember the minty moment of triumph when I managed to get toothpaste on my eyebrow somehow.

So what gives?

I glance down.

Is there something on my shirt?

Nope, just the tank top with the seagull wearing sunglasses

He doesn’t even seem to notice it.

Huh.

I’ve gotten all kinds of creepy comments whenever I wear this, like “lucky seagull,” or “”I’d love to see what he sees under those glasses.”

Ick factor ten, but it’s one of my favorites so I wear it anyway.

But this guy? Nothing.

Maybe he’s married.

I check—no ring. Not that that means anything.

Maybe he’s having an affair. Or maybe he’s just really into ginger ale and not emotionally unavailable bartenders.

My gaze shifts back to him.

He still hasn’t said anything. Still hasn’t looked at me again.

And for some reason, that’s weirder than if he had.

“So what brings you to our tiny corner of beachside mayhem?” I ask, mostly to fill the quiet. “And don’t say the ocean. That’s everyone’s answer. Bonus points if it’s weird.”

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