When We Touch

Jack

I read somewhere the earth is round so we can’t see too far down the road. Opening my eyes mid-morning Sunday, the first thing I see is my hard-on tenting the elegant Matelassé blanket over me. The second thing I see is Ember across the room.

It takes me a few seconds of blinking before I remember coming home last night after my run-in with Tabby and having a few more drinks. Then, possibly a little drunk, I dug her portrait out of the closet again.

“Fuck,” I growl, sitting up and rubbing my face. “No more midnight cocktails.”

Throwing the blanket aside, I stalk down the hall toward the bathroom. My feet make dull thudding noises on the soft pine floors.

This place is really nice, I think, entering the sparkling bathroom. Bracing myself with one hand against the wall, I reach down and ease my erection toward the bowl so I don’t paint the elegant ceiling yellow.

Out in the kitchen, I open and close the empty cabinets realizing quickly I forgot a few important things. I don’t even have coffee.

“Dammit,” I growl, heading for the bedroom to put on clothes. I jerk faded jeans over my hips and a gray tee over my head. Scooping up a baseball cap, I’m out the door.

Two minutes later I steer The Beast into town, searching for coffee and sustenance. It’s deserted, of course, since half the population is at church and the other half is sleeping it off. When I was a kid, the closest grocery store was two towns over. Thankfully, someone’s opened one here since then.

I pull up outside the building I’ll be painting tomorrow. The sign reads, “Pack n Save Poboy Shop,” and it’s adjacent to the hardware store.

A little bell rings over the door when I enter, but the place is empty. Only a guy in a ball cap sits behind the register studying his phon

e. I grab a plastic basket and make my way through the aisles quickly, grabbing a loaf of bread, coffee, filters. The refrigerated section has a limited supply, but I grab a package of ground beef, sausages, what looks like a decent steak. Cheese and a carton of cream, and I return to the front.

The guy puts his phone down and quickly rings me up, placing my items in the plastic bags hanging beside him. I look up and read the menu. The listing is a full range of specialty sandwiches from pastrami on rye; to turkey, apple, Brie, and bacon; to New Orleans muffulettas; and Cajun shrimp and oysters.

My stomach growls just reading it.

“Hey,” I say, giving the guy a nod.

“How’s it going,” he answers without looking up.

“How long has this place been open?”

He doesn’t smile. “’bout five years.”

“You the owner?”

Dark eyes evaluate me. “No.”

He goes back to scanning, and it looks like that’s all I’m getting.

I try again. “I’ll be honest, when I lived here, there weren’t many people of color in Oceanside Village.”

“Still aren’t.”

I think a moment, and as a last-ditch effort, I hold out my hand. “Jackson Cane. I used to live here. I’ll be painting your storefront starting tomorrow.”

Brown eyes move from my outstretched hand to my face. “It’s not my storefront.”

I think he’s going to leave me hanging, but he catches my hand in a firm shake. “André Fontenot.”

“Good to meet you, André.” I motion to the sign. “You make the sandwiches?”

“Yep.” I’m all bagged up. His work is done. “Thirty-two fifty.”

Digging in my pocket, I pull out two twenties and hand them over. “I’ll stop in tomorrow and try one. Which do you recommend?”

“Depends on what you’re in the mood for.”