dinner at the wharf

We went down to the wharf for dinner tonight. The smell of red tide wafted into the car all along the beach route, but once we got to the wharf, it was fine.

Chris, the bartender, has eyes the color of pumpkin and a wide, sunny smile. He shook everyone's hands and his fingers lingered in my palm as I pulled my hand away. He shot grins at me all evening, as if he knew something about me and I became convinced that he knew that I have secrets. And I do, of course. I've never met him before.

I sat at the driftwood bar, the sea breeze rustled the small pile of napkins in front of me as my eyes swept over the handles on the draft beer taps. I impulsively ordered a Killian's Red to wash down the seafood, though I have never ordered one before. I smiled as I ran my fingers along the frosted glass, thinking of someone I once knew who was fond of Killian's. The ale made me feel warm inside and every muscle in my body unclenched. I ordered a second one and when Chris set the glass in front of me, he leaned in and whispered intimately, "good girl." I looked around to see if anyone else had heard. No. They hadn't.

After we ate, we walked on the beach and watched the sun dip into the gulf. The breeze picked up and bunches of sandpipers blew in and ran back and forth, in and out of the tidewater. The season is changing. I can feel it in the air.