Page 5 of Sunset Catchers

Where people make good on their reveries and open that coffee shop, that store full of whimsy or that art gallery. Where they sell homemade candles out of a cute, bright blue booth at the end of their driveway. Where you can buy fruits and veggies and bouquets of beautiful flowers directly from someone’s home after they grew them with love.

It’s sort of romantic, to live out your dreams so openly.

Once my car is turned off, I sigh. I can’t quite explain why the situation at the gas station had been so awkward. Well, except the part where I’m involved. That probably accounts for a good and fair part of it.

But also, I’m pretty sure that guy loathed his job.

Or maybe he just had the kind of morning when leaving your bed was not the best idea, because boy was he a grumpy one.

Still, there had been something magnetic about him. It’s probably the hair that curled slightly at his nape and over his forehead. I loved when hair did that on a guy.

It’s disappointing that there hadn’t been a name tag stitched to his coverall, not even having the means to give a name to the guy who would most definitely make his way into my late-night slutty fantasies. Not that it was a hard place to win with the self-imposed dry spell I was suffering through.

Anyone looked good to me right now. Even more than before.

Yes! That’s probably it!

He was just a mid-looking guy rendered hotter by my need to get railed.

Chuckling, I unbuckled my seatbelt, got out of my car and made my way around the front bumper, opening the rear left door.

My nose crinkles with annoyance.

I did my very best to keep the inside mess free and not let it turn into a dump.

To no avail.

The four-hour road trip it took me to get here from Montreal definitely left its traces behind. I behold the crumpled take-out bags on the floor and the backseat filled with more trash.

I’ll deal with the mess later. It is one of my specialties, after all. I have never met a problem I wanted to fix as soon as it appeared. If you think ten years is too long of a timeframe to get over something; you and I would not get along.

Once I have my tote bag containing my computer that I’ll need for this meeting, I smooth the skirt of the light-yellow dress with tiny white flowers I’d chosen to wear for this meeting, the moment I landed this job. It had been waiting in my online cart for a few days, and I was overjoyed when I’d had a reason to buy it.

I love the bows that run along the sleeves. The floral fabric that hugs my bust and waist before slightly flaring out in a skirt that skims my calves, so I won’t have to worry about it shortening up when I’m sitting down, meaning my thighs were in no danger of sticking to any surfaces.

My nails are freshly painted in my favorite shade of pink, and I’d opted to let my curly hair loose. A decision I kind of regretted now due to its lack of cooperation.

I believe there are two kinds of girls in this world: the ones that let their hair loose and the ear tuckers.

I am a member of the latter.

My hair does not give a shit.

It is always behaving as an outdoor cat you are forcing to be an indoor cat. You think it is napping inside then bam; here your cat is, chasing a bird in the backyard.

I lather another coat of gloss on my lips using the side mirror. I’m overthinking it, but I need for this meeting to go well. This is such a great opportunity, and I’m unwilling to leave any detail untended at the risk bad luck.

So, I, very carefully, dodge the cracks on the sidewalk as I walk up to my client’s house. Once facing the Victorian-style home, I slide my patchwork tote made of mismatched floral fabrics high on my right shoulder and inhale deeply, taking a moment to feel the longing that wraps around my heart to squeeze it with a tight fist. Then, releasing my breath, I let the feeling slip away into the universe.

It’s one of my new, healthier ways to deal with these heavier feelings that sometimes make it hard to exist in corporeal form all of a sudden.

I felt my feelings, then I let them go instead of white knuckling them. I hear this type of behavior is called “growth,” but I don’t know; I’m still the same five feet six inches I’ve always been.

This house is the definition of a dream home.

Well, mine and a few hundred thousand people, according to Pinterest. It’s a two-story stunner, with big, mature trees offering both greenery and privacy. Pale yellow shutters and a wraparound porch where a swing with floral cushions hangs, being the perfect place to drink homemade lavender lemonade. A white picket fence around the whole lot. The grass—as green as your neighbor would want his own to be. Even if spring barely had a grasp yet.

What I love most, though, is the color of the home: bright saturated purple.