Glimpses

I spent the weekend on Hatteras Island, NC (I have friends who rented a place, otherwise my broker than broke ass would have not been there), and things got stirred . . . Here's from something new.

Don't ask me where it's going, I have no idea. And NO, I had no such bizarro fantasy while in The Banks. You've even got typos. That fresh.

Glimpses

Okcracoke Island is the typical, oft written about summer island for vacationers owning or renting houses. It’s unobstructed beaches prove fertile ground for waves catching, sunbathing, and outright lounging. It’s a small, secluded place, with just the right amount of trees and shore and people. It’s characters range from the leathery and old to the young and new with stores selling knickers and homespun purses. Tiny roads twist you around this island, and in the village even tinier roads house homes for the old and new. “For Sale” signs dot the landscape, more so than usual this year, and as we turn to the bend to head to the craft store the cutest little cottage catches my eye.

It’s faded white paint, gently chipping away, one story bungalow, almost hidden in the trees with the sand and crushed seashell drive way scream of retreat and release. The “For Sale” sign urges entry, but I already know I cannot even dream of a house right now. Yet, as we turned the corner I got a glimpse of life with Vaughn.
I saw him standing on the porch, holding a sack of groceries from the market not a mile away, I saw a black eight ball Swingline bike parked in front of the porch next to a pink one, I saw half dead orchids on a table partly obscured by the open doorway, I saw Gerber Daisies in planters under the front windows, and then I saw myself.

I came from the dim hallway, in a flowery cotton summer dress with a head rag holding back my hair. I had to have been writing as I had a pen in it, and my face had that far off look. My skin was barely tan with deep with summer, and as I looked closer at him Vaughn’s was too. How could this be? Was he here with me too? Did we live together, did we own this house? Did he own this house and I only the visitor?

He kissed me on the cheek, in that sweet and soft way of his, and the kiss was almost buttery and deep rose sweet.

“I bought the stuff for dinner. Dan and Sherry should be over the ferry anytime now.” His was still the same, his tone still captivating and soothing, sweet to only me, and recognizable in any crowd. Yet, something was different.
Playing with my hair he murmured in my ear, and I put tomatoes and corn away while giggling. The bandanna on his head covered his hair, but it was covered in paint. As I stopped to look closer at the scene Vaughn was in denim overalls with the signs of an artist’s frenzy work all over them. All I could think was please let this take me to his studio and I wonder if I sold a best seller. I must have because this place requires cash. Oh God!

…

I must have muttered “Oh God” because Cindy asked if I was all right. Rolling my shoulders back in a care free island way I told her yes that I just couldn’t get over the beauty of the place. Pfft. Really, I was shitting my pants because I didn’t know what in the hell just happened.

No sooner had I seen my life as we turned to corner and I came back to reality. Three shoeless boys peddled their bikes down the narrow cottage road balancing handle bars and ice-cream cones while we maneuvered the car to the pottery and craft shop. Shaking the glittery cobwebs of Vaughn from my mind I climbed out of the car and wandered into the shop. Nothing in the shop really struck me, and we left without buying.

The Village Peddler has rooms partly filled with trinkets and knickknacks—the kinds of things I loathe—and Indulgences made me giggle as I saw a tote with my favorite designer’s fabric. I pointed and said “Hey, that’s Amy Butler fabric!” I didn’t but because I make my own bags, and I like my constructions better. The young couple of the store had a small baby, and they were working on feeding him. As we left, a wave of incense from a nearby shop wrapped through my nostrils and Vaughn and I were in my study (I presume so with it’s Mediterranean Orange walls, rows of books, and photos in kitschy frames). Damn, I want to see his freakin’ studio, not my nasty, empty coffee cup filled office.

“I have writer’s block,” my fantasy self wined as she slunk down into a well worn leather office chair. Vaughn, still in the same over alls and bandanna, gruffed.
Rubbing her shoulders, “You always say that when you have a rough part. It’s only rough until you finish it, and then you get all giddy and drink champagne on the docks with the tourists like it’s 1999.”

“Mmmmmm,” she tries to nestle her head on her shoulder with his fingers.

“Oh shit!”

“Are you okay,” Cindy reaches down to help Piper up while rolling her eyes at me.

“Really, where the hell are you today? I realize we are on vacation, an island, and all that jazz, but I think you’ve gone on a little too far off the radar. You just tripped over nothing.”

“Ha. Ha. I’m fine . . . just making sure you’re on your toes. Though, perhaps I should rethink my plan. Bodily injury on my part is not fun.” Flexing my knee, I rolled my fat ass up and tongue flipped Cindy off.

“You are a moron.”

“And you’re a retard for hanging out with me,” at that I drug Cindy into next tourist trap shop while silently thinking I was losing my God-given mind. Though, being able to finish this fantasy might be nice. . .