The Dog Days of Summer - Lucy
Saturday mornings are an indulgence, and I love the slow pace. I take my favorite yoga class and then stop at the new coffee shop in town. All were within walking distance of my apartment and the clinic.
The bells on the door to the coffee shop chime as I walk in, and the aroma of fresh-baked goodness overwhelms my senses. My stomach growls, reminding me that the dinner I made the night before had been barely satisfying. I stare at the overhead menu, overwhelmed with the options.
“Oh, hi Doc,” a familiar voice calls from behind the display case. I turn to find none other than Charlie Stone, and instantly wish I’d stopped home for a shower before stopping in for coffee.
“Charlie, hi. Do you work here?” I ask.
“I own the place. We opened just after the 4th.”
Only someone from Bristol, RI, will use the 4th of July as a point in time.
In this town, there is the period between Flag Day and the 4th of July, and then there is After.
The town celebrates with the oldest-running 4th of July parade in the country, but in the days leading up to it, it features concerts, carnivals, and other celebrations.
Instead of relaxing at cookouts this year, I operated on a Labrador (why is it always a Lab!) to remove a corn cob that had turned into a lethal blockage.
“I hear great things, but this is my first time in here. What do you recommend?”
“For coffee? Or a sweet treat?”
I watch his mouth offer me a sweet treat, and suddenly it’s not food on my mind. Those lips, had I ever noticed a man’s lips before? The bottom lip—suckable for sure, but when it curves into a soft smile, I forget he asked me a question.
He stares at me, waiting for a response.
“Oh, how about savory? Ham and Swiss on a croissant? And a sugar-free vanilla latte with soy milk.”
“Okay, and Doc, this is on me, as thanks for yesterday,” he says as he preps my order.
As someone who struggles to take anything from others, something in me recognizes that he needs to do this for me. Instead of my usual protest, I simply say, “Thank you.”
It is not unusual for pet owners to send treats, gifts, or thank you’s after we care for their pets. I remind myself that my breakfast is no different from a fruit basket sent to the clinic.
I want to tell him I thought about him last night, but I don’t want to sound creepy. “Are you okay?” I ask when he hands me my latte.
“I am. I knew I wouldn’t have long with Bones, but wanted to give him the best time I could.”
I sip the latte and immediately feel my eyes roll back into my head. “Mmm. This is delicious.”
“If you think that’s good, wait until you taste my buttery croissants.”
I almost spat my coffee at him. Buttered buns—em—croissants should not make me think about his ass.
Lucy, you have no right thinking about your client’s ass. Or mouth. Or those soulful gray eyes.
I think about his ass, and he turns his back to me as he collects my ham and Swiss, and I see his ass. Fuck.
Me: I need to get laid.
Betsy: Um. Yeah. But why so urgent?
Me: I’m in a coffee shop downtown and ogling my client’s ass.
Betsy: Why don’t you fuck him, then?
My sister, love her to death, but she’d watch me ride into hell and watch the show with a bowl of popcorn. Ever since I finished vet school, her encouragement to live a little borders on inspiration, designed to help me self-destruct.
Me: You’re no help.
As I take my first bite of his croissant, my eyes roll back into my head.
“That good?” He asks.
I nod. “You’ve got yourself a regular customer.”
“See you tomorrow, Doc?”
“Lucy. Call me Lucy. And yes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”