Three
 Reality, however, presented itself in the form of her condo, which had not had a proper cleaning in six weeks. When she was busy like she’d been, Sylvie called a service to come in and clean once a week. This time around, she hadn’t even had time to do that much. Before she could relax at all, Sylvie must clean the entire place—three bedrooms, a bath, kitchen, and living room. Her single-car garage below was always clean except for the junk wall. That was where she stored “stuff.”
In the middle of all this, as she wore the traditional and probably legally mandated yellow gloves, the phone rang. She put down the mop and the bucket with which she was headed to the bathroom. Running one bare forearm over her forehead, she picked up the portable phone in the kitchen with the other.
“Hello, Sylvie, this is Rob Turlock.”
“Oh yes,” she said noncommittally. Her heart beat a little faster, and she stepped onto the little patio. Good that he couldn’t see her now, wearing her old Bermuda shorts and a faded Good Times in Ensenada t-shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra, but her breasts were small and firm, and never in the way. She actually owned a few very frou-frou white cotton bras with silk ruffles, but mostly she wore athletic bras. She sprawled on one of her white plastic chairs and put her legs on the other, expecting a seductive conversation. She was ready to parry, to hold her own, to dictate terms.
“So,” Rob said, “I’ve been thinking about it, as I’m sure you have, and I’ve successfully concluded that I really ought to ask you to come surfing with me tomorrow.”
“What!” she squealed. “This is too much. You must read minds. I can’t believe it.” Suddenly, her two week time off was starting to fill in with interesting activities. She went back into the house and began to feel a warm glow inside as she dusted around the vase that held her dozen roses.
The next day, Rob Turlock swept by in his green Porsche and picked her up. “I had a little trouble finding your place,” he said as she climbed in. He clicked his white teeth on the ear stems of his horn-rimmed sunglasses. “But I was determined to find you.”
“Shall I bring my board?”
“I don’t have my rack up. Let’s rent.”
“Okay!”
She climbed in, giving him a sidelong examination. He put his sunglasses on, shifted gears with a tolerant, practiced look, and slid into traffic. He had small hands, she saw, pale and freckled, and a big head. Not a big head, a biggish head, she amended. He was downright handsome, in his tight jeans, deck shoes, and white denim shirt. There was something calculating about him, but that must be the salesman in him. Size people up. Shmooze. Close the deal. That was how he got to drive this expensive car.
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Copyright © 1996 by John T. Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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