Page 45 of Stroked Long
What would my mom do right about now?
When I was younger, I was terrified of storms, especially big ones like this, where you feel like your house is going to fall apart from Mother Nature’s downpour. I would run into my mom and dad’s room, tug on her arm, tears in my eyes, and she would scoot to the middle, lift up the covers, and snuggle me into her chest.
How would Ruby feel about snuggling?
No, that’s massively inappropriate. We work together.She’s not your girlfriend. You don’t even want a girlfriend.
“Um, Bodi, are we just going to stand here in the dark or are you going to go get candles?”
“Yeah, sorry.”Perfect, fucking awkward again.
Guiding her with my phone’s flashlight, we walk down the dark hallway while lightning flashes illuminate the condo and thunder booms rattle the walls through the storm’s ferocity.
“This is fun.” She chuckles nervously. “Why do things always seem scarier in the dark during thunder storms?”
“Maybe it’s a feeling we never lose from childhood.”
I have a lot of those feelings, thunderstorms not being one of them.
“Maybe. Someone should make a movie about how beautiful thunderstorms are rather than trying to scare the bejeezus out of us with spinning doll heads, dark hallways, and lightning. Thunderstorms could be lovely if paired with a smiling cupcake. Can you picture it? A movie of a dancing cupcake full of rainbow sprinkles celebrating in a thunderstorm? Now that might change my mind.”
“Until the cupcake is zapped and barbequed on the spot.”
“Hey!” She laughs. “You can’t help but destroy all sugary confections, can you? A little frosting never hurt anyone.” She pokes my side and then shakes her finger. “Good Lord, man. What do you have under that shirt? Cast-iron muscles?”
“Definitely not frosting.” I grin and open the linen closet to pull out my emergency kit of candles. Los Angeles has occasional blackouts so it’s always good to be prepared.
I light a couple, hand one to her, and take her back to the living room where we both sit on the couch. Carrying the box forced me to miss the warmth of her touch, a touch I so desperately want back.
In the box there is a box of raisins—I have no clue why—a flashlight, and a pack of cards. Trying to not make things uncomfortable, I open the pack of cards and sheepishly look at her. “Want to play some cards?”
“Yeah!” Automatically she faces me on the couch, crosses her legs, and claps her hands together. “What do you want to play?”
“Go Fish?” I really have no depth when it comes to card games. I don’t even know poker, sad I know, but I was busy being a recluse growing up, only spending time in the pool and watching baseball.
She grimaces. Clearly not a fan of Go Fish. “How about Slap Jack?”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve never played?” Her eyes are wide, complete wonderment floating in them.
“Nope.” I shake my head.
“That’s a crime.” Grabbing the cards, she starts shuffling the deck. “It’s all about having fast reflexes. Think you can handle that?”
“Pretty sure.” I grin.
Tilting her head to the side, she studies me and then pokes the corner of my mouth with her index finger. “Hate to say it, Bodi, but your smile is crippling to all uteruses.”
“What?” I laugh, not sure how to take that comment.
“And that laugh too.” Without answering me, she shakes her head and starts dealing cards.
Was she flirting with me just now?
No, you idiot, she was paying you a compliment since you’re probably scowling like an angry bastard most of the time.
“The object of the game is to not be the first person to run out of cards. I’m going to divide the deck in half and once all the cards are dealt, we trade off putting cards down. If we see a jack, we have to slap it. The first one to slap the jack wins the pot of cards underneath.” With a prideful smirk she says, “As a warning, I’m very good at this game.”
