Page 9 of Rosie and the Dreamboat
“I’ve logged each and every one. Hang in there. They’re gonna get you out.”
“Can I make a special request?” I think he nods. “I want you to get me out. Not them.”
“Forget it, sweetie. Practically nothing in that truck has my fingerprints on it.” He sighs, and says, all melancholy, “Uh-oh. I’m drooping. Ma always says, super sarcastically, ‘Won’t somebody think of the sad, handsome boy?’”
“You just need some TLC. Lucky for you, I’m an expert in peace lilies. Here.” I lift a hand and noisily trickle water for a little bit, picturing green leaves. “Better?”
“Much.”
“If your colleagues weren’t being dismissive of you constantly, would you feel any better? Is it a really hard job?”
He seems to need a few moments to think, so I paddle my legs around in the water.
“I cope with the job great, I think. I love the guys, the schedule, no two days the same, all the cool, naked weirdos I get to talk through their weird situations.”
I smile and touch the side of the tank where he’s sitting. “Present company included?”
“Of course. I do get a lot of purpose from my work. It’s just that when off shift, and there’s empty days racked up ahead of me, I just don’t know what to do with myself. I droop after about a day. I chose this job to be useful. That’s a catchphrase in my family. ‘Make yourself useful.’ But I can’t even do that.”
“You’re being more useful to me than any of your crew.”
“I want to put some of my training into practice, but I just don’t get the opportunity.” A long pause follows, and then, “I think we’ve just nailed why I’ve been feeling like shit lately. What do I owe you for the therapy session? I can slide my credit card through the seal.”
I hear the vulnerability in his joke. “What do you do to keep busy outside of work?”
“Gym. Iron my flammable stripper uniform. Go past Ma’s place and open a pickle jar for her. Eat them all while spiraling. Get told to make myself useful.”
“You like pickles? You’d love me right about now.”
“My mouth’s watering, Rosie Clamshell,” he says, all sexy-playful, and now I just have to confront the thought that’s been floating around me.
This guy is so hot.
Then I remember a point I really need to reiterate. “I’m not gorgeous like my sister.”
“Was she? Is she?” He doesn’t sound very interested. “All I seem to recall is she was an abandoner of my poor Rosie.”
This guy is so sweet.
“Well, compared to her, I’m a late bloomer.”
“I hear some roses are.”
This guy is so witty. He’s in a fireman uniform.
He’s the entire package.
Just like my sister.
He muses, “I really can’t believe I was given a rose before.”
I’m aggravated again by this unseen woman, shooting her shot, probably checking her phone right now to see if he’s messaged her. Here in the dark, in a world of no sight, touch, or clarity, I can’t ignore this new bloodred emotion. I want to take that rose of his and snap the head off it. I want to destroy that pretty, flirtatious gesture under the heel of my nine-dollar ballet flats.
“What’s up?” he asks me. Can he feel my emotions? I’ll be honest. I don’t care anymore.
“Just irrationally jealous of the red-rose woman.”
“Aw. She ain’t got nothing on you.”
