Apr 23

Leave It

What a beautiful spring morning. The sun shines brightly through my home-office windows as it burns off the morning dew from the deck, the lawn and the trees. A dozen or more birds are taking turns at the birdfeeder just off the deck. The weather report says Detroit might hit seventy-degrees for the first time this year, so I open the office windows and let in some long overdue fresh air.

The smell of spring invites me outdoors, but I must get this work done. I turn my attention back to the computer with a new resolve; finish, then get outside and enjoy this day. Both dogs, Gracie and Joker, are resting upstairs, as is their custom after we get back from the park in the morning. The television and radio are silent and the only sound is the morning rush hour chirping at the birdfeeder, until even that seems to go quiet.

Fully engrossed in my work, I lose all track of time.

‘Leave it.’

Startled, I look up. What?

I look out the window, convinced I just heard an unfamiliar, high-pitched voice, say leave it. It is dead quiet. There is no one in my yard or either of the neighbors’ yards, that I can see, but the birdfeeder has been commandeered by one of largest crows I’ve ever seen. Easily twice the size of a normal crow, its shimmering, azure-blue on midnight-black wings envelop its unusually rotund body. It stands on the peak of the little roof that covers the birdfeeder and just stares at me, first with one big, brown eye and then the other. It does not eat the feed, just bobs its head up and down as it switches its focus from one eye to the other. I’ve never seen such a fat crow. I turn to get my cellphone to take a picture.

‘Leave it.’

I get a chill in my spine, and slowly turn back to the window. The voice sounds like it is coming from my deck. I stand, put my nose on the screen and look along the house half expecting to see someone. There is no one there. I look down under the windowsill, then question if it wasn’t all in my head.

The crow is staring at me. It hasn’t moved in over a minute.

I’m home alone. No one is going to hear me talking to a crow, so I say half-jokingly, ‘Leave what?’

The crow spreads its wings and bobs its head, then caws three times. And then flies off.

I watch it circle over my neighbor’s house before it lands on the peak of that roof. It caws again, three more shrills. Though more distant, these caws sound even louder. It sits there and stares at my window. Feeling a little creeped out, I go back to what I was working on and try to forget that I just asked a crow a question. And that it seemed to almost respond. I wonder what three shrills means in crow-talk?

I finish my work in time to make lunch for me and the dogs, who by now are awake and hungry. They anxiously watch me prepare their bowls with a mixture of last night’s leftovers with dry and canned dog food. Gracie stands by the deck door and starts one of her deep-throated growls, and I know there’s a squirrel in the yard. But I also know food-in-a-bowl takes precedence.

Squirrels are endless entertainment for my dogs, both here at home and at the park. At ages eight and nine, both dogs are now too old and too slow to catch the squirrels over a short distance. My mutts never were smart enough to hunt in a coordinated attack. The critters always hightail it as fast as they can for the trees then climb to an unreachable branch and wait out the dogs. Sometimes, they chastise the dogs with their squeaky, little chatter, and rattle their tails like sabers.

I take my lunch to the deck table, but the dogs’ bowls remain inside. I leave the screen door open so they can join me when they finish. There are squirrels in the yard, as usual, but they don’t pay me any mind, so long as the dogs don’t come out. They go back to foraging for their lunch and I go about forking mine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see that fat crow perched on top of my neighbor’s roof. It looks again to be staring right at me. I point my fork at it and say in an admonishing tone, ‘Have you been up there all this time?’  My dogs think I’m calling them and come running.

As soon as the dogs’ paws hit the porch, the two squirrels under the birdfeeder bolt. They take their usual escape route and beeline-it for the nearest tree, about forty feet away. Suddenly, the crow swoops off the roof and heads straight for the base of that same tree. It arrives before the squirrels with its wings spread as big as an umbrella. Shocked, the squirrels turn back, right into Joker’s and Gracie’s charge. The crow flies off, but the squirrels are left with only one alternative and that is to try and jump, springboard-style, over the dogs. The squirrels jump, Gracie jumps, too, and head-butts one of them out of midair. Before that squirrel can find its feet, Gracie has her teeth around its neck and starts shaking her head from side to side.

‘Gracie, no!’ I yelled from the deck. ‘Stop it!’

Gracie tosses it, and the now-limp critter thuds back to earth twenty feet away. Joker chases it down and bites into its belly, and gets blood all over her white snout.

My appetite is spoiled.

I get the dogs back in the house and scold them, not for killing a squirrel; they don’t understand my words, just my infliction — they thought they were killing it for me. I’m mad because now I must clean off Joker! And now I gotta pick up a dead critter! Yesterday was trash day, so that means I’ll have to bag it and drive out to the park to trash it. Otherwise, it’ll be growing maggots before my next trash day.

I aggressively wash off Joker with Dove soap and get myself sloppy wet in the process. Even more pissed off now, I fill a brown shopping bag half way with crumbled newspaper to absorb the dead critter’s blood, then get a plastic garbage bag to put it all in. I grab my garden gloves, a shovel and a bucket and step around the garage to the back yard.

I stop cold.

That big, fat crow is tearing apart the squirrel and has half of its innards already on the ground.

It looks up at me, first with one eye, then the other, back and forth. I don’t move. It goes back to ripping out entrails. It isn’t taking time to eat, just tearing it apart with its beak and claws.

Another crow flies in, but instead of attacking Fatso, it lands a few feet away and walks up, picks up one of the pieces that’s already been removed and flies off. Soon, another crow lands, takes a piece of squirrel and flies off. I back-step into the garage. When I get back in my office, Gracie and Joker are watching out the window as the crows descend in their yard. My dogs don’t growl or bark or even perk their ears. They just watch, and so do I. Sortie after sortie, this repeats for nearly an hour.

All the other crows look just like crows, not bulbous like this first one. They all seem to come and go in the same direction and I wonder if there is a colony of them, or a flock, or whatever a bunch of crows are called, living in the patch of woods behind my neighbor’s house. I want to go exploring. I suddenly want to know everything I can find out about crows. Fatso flies off last with the remains of the squirrel clutched in its talons. It caws three times.

I never did take a picture. Caught up in watching that brilliant bird, it was easy to forget. What I cannot forget is how it cut off the squirrels’ only escape, how it got my dogs to kill its dinner, how Fatso played chef for an entire family of crows, and how it got me to leave it.

End, Part One.

 

Apr 21

Our New Meeting Place

Wednesday, April 5th, was our meeting in Ann Arbor. We met at the Barnes & Noble Bookstore on the corner of Washtenaw and Huron Parkway (3235 Washtenaw). It was so-o-o nice to be back in a bookstore again, especially one that was so welcoming!

 

The minute I walked in the first set of doors, there were various books vying for my attention. Once through the next door, the magazines and the café were to my right, the Information Desk in front, and stationary, cards, etc. to the left.

 

This bookstore also has a second floor filled to overflowing with books in many different genres. Fiction, history, psychology and more are all on the second floor. There are also chairs throughout so you can sit and peruse the books you’re interested in.

 

Everything was ready for us when we arrived for the pre-meeting. Once we took the escalator to the second floor and turned right twice, there was a long brown table waiting with chairs on both sides and a “Reserved” sign on top. We all felt so welcome!

The pre-meeting went very well. Barbara led us in a writing activity about “Our Crazy Family”. And, we had new member, Michelle, join us for the evening.

 

John led the main meeting. We had three pieces and there was plenty of time for feedback on each. In fact, the discussions were so lively and extensive that we barely finished by 9:00 p.m.

 

Our next meeting here at the Barnes & Noble in Ann Arbor will be Wednesday, May 3. The weather should be better by then and all of us hope that more people will be able to make it!

 

If you want driving advice, coming from Livonia on M-14, make a left onto #23 South. After the Geddes Exit, the traffic slows down that time of night. So, take the Geddes Exit on right and continue on Geddes to Huron Parkway. Turn left onto Huron Parkway. In a few minutes you’ll see a shopping center with a Walgreens Store on your right. Turn in and go past a few stores. You’re here! Barnes & Noble is on your right.

 

If you come to the light on Washtenaw, turn right and then right again into the shopping center. Barnes & Noble will be straight ahead.

 

Looking forward to seeing you on May 3!

Apr 16

Rodeo: Where USDA Prime Meets America’s Pride

Photo of cowboys kneeling during prayer is provided by BQGAUCK Photography and used with permission.

Humbleness is just one strength of our American cowboys.*

I’ve fallen in love with cowboys. Not Louis L’Amore’s country-drawling, quick-on-the-draw, old-time Wild West fictional characters. Not the iconic John Wayne hero-types who were popular with past generations. I’m enamored with real-live, adrenaline junkie, God-fearing, patriotic, chaps-wearing, bucking-bull-riding men. In ten-gallon hats or protective helmets, these guys—who individually race the clock astride a two-thousand-pound-angry bull that could quickly maim and easily kill—are themselves a bona fide US prime cut of the finest. National treasure.

Displaced from Michigan, I embraced Western culture by attending “The 5th Annual Castle Rock Bull Riding Show” at Douglas County Fairgrounds in Colorado. Forty-seven courageous men and four equally bold youth came prepared to test their strength and endurance against the unleashed roller-coaster-like forces of agitated and intimidating four-legged opponents.

One by one, the cowboys enter the competition ring and are introduced. The audience applauds continually, and the line of bull-riders grows. Seeking support from family and friends, the brave contestants search for familiar faces among the crowd and wave. There’s hootin’ and hollerin’ all the while, until the four mini-bull riders make their way to the end of the line.

The announcer invites active military and veterans to stand. Respectfully, cowboys remove their hats and place them over their hearts. The men and boys on the field join the applauding audience in cheering. I feel thankful for the men and women who are being acknowledged for their service. I think of the young men from church—twins who graduated from West Point and are now stationed in Afghanistan. Alec and Anthony are about the same age as my eldest son, whom I get to hug and kiss hello when he comes home from work each day. I miss my own twin boys who are away at school, and they’re only an hour’s drive away from our suburban neighborhood. I’m not sure I could manage my worry if any of my children followed a calling to serve, like Alec and Anthony have.

Instilling additional honor and respect, four members of the Fort Carson Mounted Color Guard enter the ring. Their horses increase the number to eight. The soldiers wear replicate uniforms from the 1800’s, although in my inexperience I think they look like they could be from the American Civil War period. The front and rear army representatives each carry a saber over their right shoulder. The US Flag is on the second mount; the Colorado state flag is with the third. A recording of “Proud to be an American” by Lee Greenwood blasts throughout the arena. I’m overwhelmed when I consider the number of men and women who have fought for our liberties and freedom. Throughout our long history, generations have pledged their allegiance to and risked their lives for the USA. The army soldiers stop behind the center of the cowboy line and face us spectators.

We sit and the announcer leads us in honoring “the most beautiful flag ever flown, our Stars and Stripes, our American flag.” A bugle plays in the background. I’m impressed by this introduction of our flag. “Think about the blood that has been shed for Old Glory. The Americans who have lost their lives and those who put it on the line every day for us so we can have this amazing thing called freedom.” The announcer’s booming voice gets louder and stronger as he dedicates the rodeo to “the greatest fighting force the world has ever known, the United States armed forces: the army, navy, air force, marine corp, the coast guard and the national guard!”

For several years, I’ve been disheartened by the lack of respect shown to our country’s flag. It seems to me that when you disrespect it, you’re disrespecting all the people who have sacrificed for our country: People like my nephew who serves in the army and my great uncle who served in the navy. Veterans I never knew, like the Tuskegee Airmen. Fallen marines, like my friend’s son who was honored with a twenty-one-gun salute at his funeral. People I dearly love, like my dad who was in the air national guard and jokes that he won’t ever fly again because airlines don’t give out parachutes.

I’ve seen overwhelming indifference to the flag first-hand, most often during the singing of our national anthem at public events as big as Major League Baseball games and as common as high school soccer matches. Why do some not care to honor the very symbol that represents our country and should be a source of pride? I naively like to assume that people just don’t know or remember how to honor our Stars and Stripes. Is the protocol even taught in schools anymore? Or has it become taboo, like professing faith in Jesus? Cowboys won’t tolerate neglecting God nor Country.

A pastor is introduced. He instructs us to bow our heads in prayer. I sneak a peek at those darn cowboys. The sight of them on bended knees surprises me. It’s rare to see such unity of spirit outside church or other Christian gathering, but cowboys get it. They know a successful bull-ride and walking away uninjured is in God’s hands. Many wear a symbolic cross on their chaps to remind themselves that He is with them. These men of faith understand their very lives are dependent upon God’s will, and so they show reverence for Him. Seeing that is alone worth the price of admission.

The sound of bagpipes fills the stadium as the pastor leads us in prayer for the military who fight for “freedom in every country where their boots hit the ground as they stand against tyrants and terrorists.” We pray that the cowboys will “keep their weight in the middle and their spurs moving fast” and that the bulls will “jump high and hard.” We pray for the safety of the bull fighters, the bulls, and the workers in the pens and chutes.

Cowboys go beyond the basics of knowing what to do during “The Star-Spangled Banner.” They hear the music of our national anthem, they stand, they turn to face the flag. They remove their hats from atop their heads and—placing their hats over their left shoulders—cover their hearts with their right hands. But that’s just the beginning to their outward expression of respect. Properly honoring God and expressing love for the USA are two ideals that are so important they are made a priority in rodeo and in everyday life. The real men of Colorado have their priorities straight.

____________________________________________________________

*As a Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association Photographer, Brian Gauck captures bull-riding stories by preserving the calm, quiet, reflective moments as well as the heart-stopping action of competitions. He covers many other events too. View more of Brian’s work by following this link: https://bqgauckphotography.smugmug.com/. You may also visit his Facebook page, BQGAUCK Photography. Note that Brian’s photos are copyright protected and I’m thankful he granted me use of this one! 

More about Brian: He’s retired from the U.S. Navy and has been living in Colorado since 2002. Besides being a PRCA Photographer, he’s a volunteer coach for the United States Air Force Academy Rodeo Team. He’s also a Pikes Peak Range Rider and has been married for nearly thirty-three years to Kelly Gauck.   

Apr 15

Rocket Oldsmobile

 By Jon Reed 

Back in High School, my best friend Denny’s father had a relatively new 1956 “Rocket” Oldsmobile with a high horsepower engine for its time. I couldn’t figure out why his father bought it, knowing his son’s wayward inclinations. Do people put dogs next to a hundred dollars-worth of steak and tell them not to eat? The Oldsmobile was a great looking car with a stunning two-tone coral and silver paint job. But all my friend knew about cars was taking off an air cleaner without dropping it. Late night, when he was allowed to drive it, with myself and our other friend, Kenny, in the front seat, he would put it in reverse and floor the accelerator until we hit 30 mph. Then he would shift into drive, spinning the tires in a haze of burning rubber as we screeched forward a half-block. Only years later, after graduating with an engineering degree, did I realize how durable that Oldsmobile was. Amazingly, nothing ever broke, but his father always complained about his lousy GM rear tires wearing out so quickly. 

Michigan’s first National Hot Rod Association drag racing facility, the Detroit Dragway, opened downriver near Dix and Sibley that spring. It was a big event in the Detroit area and any licensed driver who wanted to run a car in a drag race was encouraged to participate. The news flashed around Fordson High School, and even families were talking about drag-racing, likening it to an adventurous outing. At the time, the drag strip portrayed itself in a family carnival fair atmosphere, but Oldsmobile friend was being kept on a short leash, allowed to use the car for only a few hours on weekends. Oddly, its lousy GM rear tires didn’t wear out so fast when he was kept away from it. 

One Saturday night, he was granted the privilege of going out for hamburgers, but he had a surprise. After picking up Kenny and me, instead of burgers and milkshakes at a local drive-in where our parents thought we were headed, Denny drove us down to Dix and Sibley to race the Olds. Of course, this was all happening without his father even suspecting. I couldn’t believe I was involved in an adventure so obviously wrong. His father was stricter than mine, and this was as dangerous as drinking Mogen David wine with girls in the back seat at a drive-in movie. If the car was damaged in any way or anybody discovered us, we were dead meat, grounded forever. 

Nearing Detroit Dragway, night sky was lit with searchlights, deafening loud speakers, bellowing cars, and screaming race fans. The scene along the spectator fence was pandemonium, howling cars streaking away into the distance every few minutes. We went back to the parking lot to remove the Oldsmobile’s air cleaner, wheel covers, and spare tire to reduce weight. After Denny registered to race, Kenny and I ran to the starting line to watch. Sure enough, there it was, a two-tone Oldsmobile in the line moving up to begin its race into the night. I shuddered, still wondering how I had contributed to Denny abusing his family’s Oldsmobile without his father knowing. What if he blew up the engine, finally destroying the car’s rear axle after all its abuse, or went off the track and crashed the thing somewhere in the process? I was both excited and horrified, but we cheered mightily as the car’s tires spun with a burnout perfected late at night on neighborhood streets. 

As the starting lights blinked down yellow to green, Denny gunned the engine and stood on the brakes to keep the car from moving forward. The poor sedan never meant for anything like this, howled, wanting to lunge forward. Lights flashing, spectators screaming, raw fuel and burning rubber in the air, we were focused on the green starting light about to flash. 

That’s when I felt a nudge from Kenny and a gesture to the rear. Glancing back, I froze. Both my parents and Denny’s were sitting two rows back, probably the first and last time they would attend such a “family adventure” together. It turned out later our totally respectable, middle-American parents had decided to visit the drag strip on this particular night, on a whim, to see what all their friends and kids were talking about. My father had driven them down because we boys were supposed to have gone out for local hamburgers. 

At that singular moment, the Oldsmobile began howling and snorting at the starting line, smoke bellowing from rear tires. Kenny and I turned to watch, while two sets of stunned parents and thousands of spectators saw the starting green light finally blink. Without any idea his parents were there, Denny timed it perfectly. The Oldsmobile gathered its flanks and sprang forward, gaining speed, screaming down the quarter-mile track. The loud speakers announced a great run, his speed displayed a respectable 84 mph on a large sign at the end of the quarter-mile. We ran to meet him on the return road and, after excited laughter and congratulations, we told him about our parents and his grin faded into wide-eyed grimace. 

We somehow avoided a confrontation and, without waiting around, climbed in and drove back to the parking lot to reassemble the car. As one might guess, there wasn’t much conversation on the way home. My parents never thought much of the incident, assuming Denny had his father’s permission but, a few days later, the three of us met at a local soda fountain to find out what happened. Denny said when his father returned that night, he thought he would be maimed for life by a belt-whipping. But his transgression was so great, apparently, his father simply asked what his elapsed time was before telling him he should go to bed since it had been quite a night. And he should begin saving money for a new set of tires. 

Apr 10

Bingo

“B-13!” Mercy Mia sounded off at the head of the room. Ellie looked up at her friend, Mercury Martin. His lips were a dark red tonight with an edge of gloss with liner to bring out the shape. He had shadowed eyes that added sultry to the girl next door, and his cheeks brushed with enough color for the added drama. He had on his favorite sequenced form fitting dress. Also red. And she knew underneath the table he had on a pair of five-inch heeled shoes by one of his favorite designers, Manolo Blahnik. His breasts were hiked up and sitting proud. She wished she had that much cleavage. Add the bigger than Everest hair, and you had the perfect drag queen. Ellie couldn’t help but smile.

Ellie snickered as Merc told another dick joke in between number calling and Merc’s boyfriend, sitting next to her, snorted every time Merc looked over. They’d recently moved in together. They were adorable.

“Unlucky,” Ellie shouted at her friend and frowned. She blotted the letter/number on her bingo sheet.

“Suck it up, sister!” Merc yelled back.

Ellie smiled at her friend again. She stuck her tongue out at him. Mercury was one of her best friends and forced her to come out to drag queen bingo. She’d been hiding too long for his taste he’d told her.

She sighed. Her apartment was like a living dirge swallowing her up like a grave, and she was starting to resemble a vampire.

“G-7,” Mercy Mia called out.

Ellie slammed the blotter on the empty space on her card. She’d sat an hour already, and she was no closer to getting bingo.

“Honey,” Merc’s significant other Jackson said, “I don’t think your game board can take any more.”

She looked over at him. “Serves it right for not giving me any winning squares.” She looked at her board. Empty. Like her life.

Jackson was the total opposite of Merc. He was short and fit, muscular in all the right places. Though five foot ten wasn’t considered short to her, it just was short compared to Merc’s six foot four. Jackson wore a tailored suit of dark blue and a pair of trousers that fit and held him just right as they tapered down to his ankles. He’d just taken off his jacket, and the light azure shirt hugged his chest like it was a breast plate. How did he get it to look like that she wondered? He looked scrumptious.

Too bad he was of the man-loving-honey-bunches-of-oats-kind and wasn’t single. She would totally try for some of him. Though lately, she wasn’t of the man-loving-honey-bunches-of-oats-kind either. With each relationship tried, she felt something missing. There were orgasms, but they lacked that wow factor that all her other friends talked about. At 25 she’d think she’d have had an earth-shattering sex partner. A little voice seemed to be knocking at her subconscious more and more, letting her know she had to stop denying the truth about her sexuality. It was getting harder and harder to ignore.

She set down her blotter when the next letter-number was called out. She didn’t want to play anymore. Ellie wanted to go straight back to bed and bury herself under the covers like she’d done all week and enjoy some mint chocolate chip ice cream and then enjoy even more her B.O.B. battery operated boyfriend. If she couldn’t find someone to interest her tonight, she would do just that.

Ellie got up. “I’m going to get a drink.” And it would be a hard one, not the soft ones served on the bingo side of the building.

The venue for drag queen bingo was a renovated church, from saints to sinners. Its space was adjacent to the main part of the church, or the nave, and could fit enough tables to hold a banquet. There was a bar in the back that served only juice concoctions. But what was great about the place, it was lit up like a dance club. There was a disco ball that flashed different lights, sections that had high tables along with a glammed up wait staff that rivaled Mercy Mia’s in the bling department. The bar did up the drinks like guests were on a tropical island, and held several contests throughout the night.

The best part, though, the nave next door was an actual nightclub that catered to all kinds. Gay, straight, lesbian, transgender; name it, it was here. No judging anyone’s preference. It just was. Ellie loved the place and had often come until her last break up. Hidden under all the sheen that was Justin, was a prick in a suit, who, once she peeled away his outer layer had been the biggest judging asshole she’d ever met. She’d brought her to an event that Merc and Jackson were hosting and all he’d contributed was disdain for her friends.

She crossed over the threshold into Club One and got blasted with base and the image of gyrating bodies. She easily picked up the beat with her hips as she walked into the space, the sound hitting her body, and rippling over her skin. Ellie loved to dance and decided she would stay awhile and see if she couldn’t find someone to rub up against. Merc was right, she needed to stop moping around her apartment and join the living again.

Sidling up to the bar leaning her elbows on the smooth mahogany surface she waited for the bartender’s attention to turn her way. She relaxed into the sultry techno number that had just transitioned from the heavy base and let the beat take her as she waited, knowing that the bartender would come over as soon as she could.

Not realizing she had closed her eyes and was swaying, Ellie was startled by the bright and cheerful voice that greeted her. “What can I get you?”

Ellie stared at the girl in front of her, the drink she wanted to order on the edge of her tongue.

The woman smiled, and Ellie stumbled over her drink order. “A cos-cosmopolitan,” she said. Stunning was not a word she would use when describing a woman, but this one had made something light up inside Ellie tingling across her sex like a sparkler anxiously waiting for its lighting. Flashing a smile, the woman walked away backward to make her drink, and Ellie’s eyes couldn’t help but follow the woman’s hips. Tight fitting, low-rise jeans hugged the bartender’s ass as the curves of her waist moved gracefully up to just under her breasts, her shirt short enough to allow a peek of pale freckled skin. And then she turned away. Ellie licked her lips and then sucked in a breath that sent an unsure quiver up her spine.

What was she doing ogling the woman? She liked men. But as soon as the thought entered her mind she knew it was time to stop denying what she’d known a long time. Her head fell back, and she focused on the cathedral ceiling, blew out a slow controlled breath trying to sort out her thoughts.

In college, she had sometimes looked at some of the girls in her classes wondering, what if, but nothing ever made her body react giving her a nice buzz like this bartender. But neither had the guys she’d met or dated for that matter. What was it about this woman?

Ellie watched her work. Her delicate fingers, polished in a black glaze, plucked the bottles she needed off the back bar as her hips swayed to the rhythm that was shaking the walls of the old church. She twirled, poured, and flipped the liter bottles with aplomb to the delight of the crowd, the stream of liquor entering the shot glasses. The ice was next in the shaker and then she put the lid on, did her thing, next pouring the alcohol mixture into a martini glass. Her head turned, and the woman’s eyes flashed over at Ellie and Ellie’s nipples got hard. Ellie leaned forward trying to get closer, waiting, her breasts aching as they pressed against the bar.

The bartender didn’t take her locked gaze off Ellie as she came closer and set the drink down in front of her. She waited. Ellie didn’t dare move. She didn’t want to break the connection, but the woman moved her hand toward the drink and traced a bead of moisture down the stem of the glass and slid it closer to Ellie, and said one word. “Drink.”

With an unsteady hand, Ellie reached for the drink, her fingers brushing the bartenders. Time seemed to slow and then stop as skin met skin.  Her breaths roared in her ears, and her chest hurt with each short puff like she’d just run a marathon. She was so turned on by this woman, never experiencing anything like the energy that their contact caused. And it went straight to all her delicate places. And then things started to move again, the woman smiling and walking away to make another drink.

Ellie sat and watched the bartender, nervous and confused, her knee tapping irregular rhythms as it bounced. She would catch the woman glance at her, making sure Ellie was still there. At least that’s what Ellie imagined. Or hoped. Would she come back over and talk to her? What would Ellie say?

She was looking down at her now empty glass when her eyes snapped up at being addressed. “What’s your name?” The bartender asked.

Suddenly her mouth went dry, and it was hard to speak. She picked up her glass and put it back down realizing again that she’d drank it all. She licked her dry lips.

“Ellie,” she said. But it was so soft the bartender had to lean in to hear, which brought her even closer, so close that their lips were almost touching.

“My names Sabrina.”

Ellie blinked and nodded, the woman’s minty breath dancing across her lips making Ellie’s insides quiver and her need grow even more. Did she have the courage to ask this woman to spend time with her after her shift?

As she was contemplating what she would say, Sabrina came back and set another drink in front of her. “This one is on the house.” Before she moved away, Sabrina reached out and touched her fingers that had the stem of the glass in a death grip. Ellie opened her mouth to say something, anything to keep her close but Sabrina moved away before she could.

The night grew later, and Ellie kept herself seated. She saw Merc and Jackson come in. They waved and went straight to the dance floor. Merc had changed and was now in a nice pair of denim and a t-shirt, always more casual than Jackson. She turned to watch them for a while. She was happy for Mercury, and desperately wanted to find what he had with Jackson.

Ellie turned back around and saw Sabrina talking to another woman at the end of the bar, leaning in, reaching out to touch the woman’s hand, and Ellie frowned. Did Sabrina do this to every woman that came to the bar? Was Sabrina even interested in Ellie? And then she saw Sabrina kiss the woman’s cheek. Ellie’s shoulders slumped, and she pushed her empty drink away.

Maybe it was just Ellie that nobody was interested in. Her mint chocolate chip ice cream was looking a whole lot better. She pulled out some money from her pocket and threw it on the bar. Before Sabrina looked this way, Ellie made her way over to her friends and said goodbye. She was tired of trying so hard trying to find what the universe was putting out there for her.

“I’m going to go home,” she yelled in Merc’s ear.

“Okay,” he said, his eyes narrowing and his lips pinching. She could tell he was worrying, but there was nothing Ellie could do to ease his concern. Ellie just needed more time to come to terms with her unlucky life.

“Don’t forget, Jackson and I will be at your house tomorrow at eleven.” He gave her a hug and kissed her on the lips.

Jackson turned to her and caressed her cheek in an unexpected gesture. He got close enough that she could feel his lips on her cheek and whispered right in her ear, “Everything will be okay.”

Will it? She wondered, waved, and walked away. She looked one more time over to the bar and unexpectedly caught Sabrina’s eyes. She turned away from the woman’s look of confusion toward the door and decided she would just ride out the storm that was brewing inside her. Things were going to have to change if she was going to find her happy. But she would think about that tomorrow.

When she woke up to the banging on her front door, she curled her head under her pillow and yelled, “Go away!” Of course, she knew it was Merc at the door, and he wouldn’t wait for her to get up. And sure, enough he didn’t.

“Rise and shine sleepy head,” he said from the front room after he used the key she’d given him.

She grumbled and started moving when the bed bounced up and down with Mercury’s weight.

“Give me a minute asshole.”

He laughed.

“I’ll make coffee, pumpkin.”

“Don’t call me pumpkin, jerk!”

He laughed some more, and she heard him talking to Jackson.

She moved sloth-like toward the bathroom and finally felt human again after a quick clean up in the bathroom. She put on a pair of her favorite skinny jeans that were so soft they felt like leggings, rolled them up a little at the bottom and then got out a bohemian flowy top to go with it. It was a bluish red color that highlighted her brown wavy hair. The keyhole at the collar showed off what cleavage she, which she knew could be more, but she wasn’t willing to go under the knife to get it. She grabbed her most comfortable wedges because she didn’t feel like looking like she’d woken up from a binge on mint chocolate chip ice cream, which she had, or the marathon of Game of Thrones she watched because she needed the violence to get her mind off romance. To finish off her look, she grabbed some bangle bracelets and lip gloss and called it done.

When she walked into the kitchen, she caught Merc and Jackson in the most romantic clutch and couldn’t help her envious thoughts. She shook her head to remind herself she’d decided the previous night, while downing more ice cream, she’d leave her lot up to destiny and asked, “So, what’s the plan? Where are we going?”

“We’re heading up the coast to check out a wine tour at a converted Monastery.”

“Well, that sounds fun. Wine, sun, monks.” She laughed.

“No monks, but definitely wine. We’re determined to get you out of your funk.”

“Okay, I’m ready.” She was unsure another outing would get her out of her funk, but she would let Merc and Jackson try.

When they got to the monastery, now called The Monk Monastery Winery, the beauty of the place floored her. The campus the monastery sat on was huge, the grounds were lush with flowers, and it was so peaceful she wanted to stay forever.

They walked into the main entrance, and the man at the front desk nodded and said for them to proceed to the right.

“Gorgeous.” She couldn’t stop looking around.

The architecture was right out of something you’d find in Spain. High ceilings like Club One, stone walls, gorgeous wood carvings and a stone floor that made her feel like she’d just stepped into another world. She took another step, and her foot landed wrong in her wedge. She heard Jackson call out and try to grab her hand, but it was too late. Ellie took a header right done a set of stairs grabbing the rail causing her ankle to twist in the wrong direction. Her last thought before her head hit the floor was at least in was only a set of three stairs.

Groaning filled her ears and then she figured out it was her pained voice she was hearing. She lifted her hand to feel her head and winced with the pain. Ellie noticed she wasn’t on the floor anymore and there was a floral scent that surrounded her. They must be near one of the pretty gardens. Christ her head hurt.

She shifted to sit up.

“Go slow, baby girl,” Merc said. Hands helped her sit up, but they weren’t Mercury’s or Jackson’s. And they weren’t the man’s she saw at the entrance.

“Ellie, are you okay?”

She turned slowly afraid she heard things that weren’t real because she hit her head so hard. The hands that had helped her sit up didn’t let go. They held her firm but gentle all at the same time.

“Sabrina.”

The woman from the bar.

Ellie blinked. Was she in a dream?

She looked at her friends. They didn’t say much, but watched her as she couldn’t form words. Ellie looked back at Sabrina.

“Hi, Ellie. Are you okay? You hit your head pretty hard.” Sabrina moved her hand off Ellie’s arm and gently touched the side of Ellie’s head. Her delicate fingers Ellie watched make drinks the night before made her skin tingle again as they danced across her temple.

“I’m, I’m fine,” she said with a nervous but giddy feeling in her stomach as she smiled so big it made her wince again. Ellie didn’t know what the universe was trying to tell her, but she sure as hell liked what had landed in her lap. Or should she say who’s lap she landed in.

Mercury and Jackson kept glancing over while they whispered to each other and smiled like the devil’s she knew they could be.

“What are you doing here?” Ellie asked.

“Second job,” Sabrina said and shrugged. “Why’d you disappear last night,” she said but too quickly closed her mouth and looked away. Where was the confident seductress she’d seen at the bar last night?

Ellie didn’t know what to say since she’d never been interested in a woman before, so she kept quiet.

Sabrina turned back to her, and that heat that Ellie had experienced at the club came rushing back. She could see the same flare go up in Sabrina too, but neither of them responded to the other. They both jumped as if guilty of something when Merc and Jackson came back over.

“You okay to still do the tour?” Merc asked her.  Ellie nodded noting there wasn’t as much pain gripping her head anymore. “You hit your head, but you didn’t black out, so I don’t think we need to cart you off to the emergency room or anything.”

Jackson frowned at Merc, but Ellie reaffirmed she was okay.

“Okay then,” Sabrina said. “Come with me.” As she stood up, she took hold of Ellie’s arms and helped her up. They were so close front to front that if she leaned in just enough their lips would touch and she’d get the first taste of a woman she’d ever had. Her mind went to all kinds of places with the image and as their chests bumped they nearly fell onto the small settee that she’d evidently been laid out on after she fell. As they stumbled and then righted themselves, Ellie took a step back and smiled.

“Lead the way,” she said and motioned with her arm to Sabrina. Sabrina smiled at her and Ellie returned it with one of her own. Ellie was looking forward to the tour, and she had a feeling she was really, really going to like it.