A Scene: I See Her in a Wetsuit Now

I see her in a wetsuit now. Day in and day out, sometimes with a t-shirt covering her top half like she was a surfer donning some modesty over her beautifully crafted body, most days like she had just stepped off the beach, but with dry curly blonde hair framing her smiling and lightly freckled face. A dream that walks the sand, the halls and doorways, the bed... and deposits itself in the only real-world memory I have of her: sitting next to me at the car warrant of fitness testing station, a knuckle scratching her forehead, sand lightly sprinkling the floor beneath her worn out, loose-laced brown boat shoes.

“Hi. My name’s Cale,” I say turning to the wetsuited woman next to me.

She turns he head slightly, eyes casting their gaze at me with some humorous suspicion.

“Let me guess,” I say. “A surfer.”

Her voice gently sails back at me, “No”.

“A wetsuit designer then.”

She smiles, cheeks creasing underneath her eyes. “No.”

“Well, you must be a wetsuit model then.”

She laughs quietly and shakes her head.

It seemed pretty obvious to me at this point, but I didn’t want to give up the game.

“Umm, how about a scientist designing the best clothing for all weather purpose.”

Her teeth were beginning to shine through her curved lips. “It gets pretty hot inside these wetsuits.”

“So the design’s not working out?”

Her eyes rolled towards the man walking into the waiting room who stretched the Warrant of Fitness sheet out to her. “Car’s all ready to go. Bit of rust around the edges, but you’ll be okay ‘till next time.”

She stood up accepting the Warrant. “Oh cool. I work near the marine reserve so I’ll definitely keep an eye on it. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

She gestured a thumb to the seat behind her. “Sorry about the sand.”

He put up a hand. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll grab the dust-buster later. Just enjoy the rest of your day.”

And she was out the door before I had a chance to even raise a hand to ask for a name... a number... a date... something.