She seemed to think she was Garbo that day. I ignored her. She stood at the helm of her water taxi wearing dark glasses, a striped jersey and a wide headband. I looked around for another boat. I was exhausted from shopping and half starved. Beneath the hem of my skirt, the salt air stung my sunburnt knees. Hers was the only boat waiting. I wanted to get home. She smirked in my direction. Storm clouds blew toward shore. If I didn't take her taxi, I'd be stuck on the Pines side of Fire Island until who knows when. She smirked again when I handed down my packages. Somehow, as I stepped into the boat, my breast brushed against her knuckles. I bristled.
The Garbo look suited her. Atleast it was a change. She had been doing James Dean through most of July and before that, it was a sort of I-Dream-of-Jeannie look. With one hand, she poked a button on the CD player and Miles Davis blew his horn. With the other, she poked the accelerator. I wasn't yet well seated (as she knew), and felt my spine whack against the edge of the bench. The bag ripped and my oranges scattered like billiard balls on a hard break. I plopped undelicately to the floor of the boat. My troublesome pilot sped out over the water giving her head a Garbo jerk skyward.
She had been under my craw since Memorial Day. It had to do with money on a horse and some damned rare orchids. Now she was walking on my oranges and if shoulders can laugh, hers were chuckling at me.
Lightning bounced on the horizon. The breeze cooled as we sped over the water. I glanced up the long stalks of her legs. They looked amazingly long from my vantage point. As she leaned into a turn, I could see her thigh curve to meet her ass. I could see her hip meet her waist and the flat wedge of her shoulderblade jut out as she adjusted some button or knob. Her hands worried and circled over the control panels, but her spine was her rudder. She navigated by the pulse of her round belly on the wheel.
Maybe she felt my eyes on her back. She surprised us both when she half turned to me, pulled off her sunglasses and leveled her gray eyes. "Do you like Miles Davis?"
That was a peace offering. I wanted to accept it, but something in me savoured loathing her. Besides, I was at the disadvantage - still sitting on the floor. I slid up onto the bench and summoned an acrid indifference. "It'll do." She looked forward again, a shade too quickly to match my frostiness. She punched the gas a little too hard and now, I was at the advantage. That was sweet.
Big drops of late summer rain splashed haphazardly into the boat. I watched one trickle down her neck and into the collar of her polo shirt. The shore looked far away and lonely. Do I like Miles Davis? Hell, what kind of a question is that? Everybody likes Miles friggin' Davis. May he rest in peace. Why didn't she just ask me if I think it'll rain?
