sunday afternoon; hot as balls. trevor focused the binoculars on jules and gabe. he ran his finger up the walkie-talkie’s ear-piece volume knob, but the rushing waves created an electric hiss that muffled their words.

her wig was sandy before she even arrived at the beach. once upon a time julesie would have slugged him on the arm for accidentally spilling soda on the pristine hairpiece. now, even from his distant hideout in the beach parking lot, he could see the beginning of a rat’s nest above her left shoulder. he would untangle it tonight.

instead of boots, jules wore flip-flop sandals. not hers. there were no bracelets on her right arm, but her left wrist caught a silver glint of sunlight and proved she was still wearing his gift.

hoards of blurry beach bums crossed the binocular’s eye line, but trevor never lost sight of the couple as they splashed in the shade of the lighthouse.

*  *  *

“—cute? i would— it was the— pink!”

moments ago, jules and the boy squeezed lake water from their soaking garb onto the sidewalk, then disappeared into the darling front door of a tourist-trap clothing store called “son of a beach apparel.” the microphone must have slipped into her backpack because every word was accompanied by an infuriating rustle.

“hell no. he— and then they killed— turned sixteen?”

trevor kicked off his right shoe. he pulled off the sock and itched the web between his big toes.

“—loved it. LOVED it.”

for an hour he waited outside that store; every passing minute—every garbled word and intimate spritz of laughter—pushed the itch further up his leg and torso until he pressed the torn stumps of fingernails into his skull.

“—dine with me? —steak and— vegetarian!”

*  *  *

jules wiggled her shoulders against the thin blue straps of her new cotton dress. her arms felt naked without sleeves or accessories and she compulsively checked her makeup in every reflective surface from the clothes store to the dune grass grill. at least the dress had a pocket on the waist; trevor-rule number six: always keep your cellphone on your person.

the window booth provided a decent view of the lake, pier and tapering violet horizon. across the table, gabe filled a napkin with intricate doodles. the backpack sat between their feet.

she scanned the menu for a salad, but found herself distracted again by merry-go-round musings of the suicidal boy, the new cotton dress, and the impending night. gabe appeared less boney in the salmon button-up than he did in the t-shirt now tangled with her own wet clothes in the “son of a beach” plastic bag. he held up his menu to point out the veggie burger, but her mind was busy dodging the habitual desire to scrutinize his sex appeal like she was eleven again, ranking the appearance, dress, potential cock size, and “marry-ability” of every stud on entertainment news. this boy could never pleasure her in that way; trevor barely could and he was TWICE the man. it wasn’t the mens’ fault; jules turned pro at nine after a surprisingly successful experiment with the sprinkler head in the neighbor’s plastic kiddie pool. the epiphany sparked further tinkering; turkey basters, q-tips, electric toothbrushes and appropriately-shaped vegetables began dominating her nights while the other kids played hide-and-go-seek in the junkyard. now, trevor got her hotter than any carrot ever could, but “hitting the right place” was rarely his aim, and when he was done, he was done.

gabe ordered the bleu-cheese burger and a cherry coke. jules requested the caesar with light dressing, no chicken and extra croutons.

he showed her a detailed napkin-sketch of her wrist, hand and watch, then he crumpled the drawing, sipped his drink and said, “the dress looks nice.”

*  *  *

“it’s a little awkward,” jules replied. “but thanks for splurging on me.”

“who needs money now anyway, right?” the voices were finally static-free, but trevor found the intermittent conversation tedious.

he bit off a chunk of peanut cluster then wiped his chocolaty fingers on the roof of the acura. the fancy candy tasted like horse shit in his mouth but he swallowed anyway. snickers bars were better.

*  *  *

gabe slid the napkin holder to the center of the table and placed the saltshaker on top. sarah looked remarkably feminine in the dress he chose, but his mind stayed out of the gutter and dwelled instead on the impossible mess in which he was drowning.

they were seated on the opposite side of the room from the booth where rose had snapped a crushing series of photographs. another couple inhabited the space and leaned together as if their noses were magnets, whispering silly nothings about a simple world without yellow nooses and cherry coffins.

he forced a toothpick into the saltshaker’s center hole, then jammed the prongs of two forks together to balance them on the toothpick. gently, he released his fingers from the contraption... but the forks slipped and clattered on the table.

“here...” sarah grabbed the forks, positioned them carefully upon the toothpick, then released her hold. they balanced perfectly. “i’m an expert tower builder,” she said.

gabe glared at the teetering forks. “sorry darlin’, but i’ve been boredom-stacking since i could lift a sippy cup.”

“we didn’t have internet access until i was fourteen. guess how i passed the time?” sarah ran her tongue along her lower lip. her eyes sparkled with something intangible and new. “tallest tower without falling eats free?”

gabe smirked, then snatched his glass and began sucking down the coke.

“it’s on,” she said and stole his napkin holder for the base of her tower.

he tried to shout “cheater!” but his mouth was full of pop. he finished the last bit of drink, then dumped the ice onto a bread plate and snatched sarah’s glass. 

“hey!”

he dropped a saucer on top, then stacked his empty cup upside down on the saucer.

“totally not fair!” 

gabe managed to stick out his tongue without breaking precious concentration.

sarah continued her balancing act with the salt and pepper shaker. “tell me, ‘dante fire’, was that shitty art critique the thing that pushed you over the edge?”

“nice try, butterfly. but you ain’t distractin’ me with yo stupid questions.”

“i really wanna know!”

he wrinkled his brow and peeped around the towers at her innocent eyes. “well,” he started, “high school was hell. my voice didn’t drop until junior year, but by that time it was too late to save my reputation. i hated sports so i locked myself in the art room every day. they hated me for that, so i hated them. now i wake up every morning with the knowledge that i’m completely alone. art school was my salvation... but that, my friend, was a pipe dream.” gabe used four interwoven knives as the next layer of his tower.

“that’s it? i thought the critique was months ago. there was no breaking point?”

“there was john.”

“you want to kill yourself because john did?” sarah removed the napkins from their holder and added them to her pile.

“you can’t witness the death of another human being and not feel pain. john had a life. he had parents and a job—”

“and a severe case of depression.”

“he wanted to be a radio talk-show host. he ran a japanese podcast about economics from his condo. i didn’t understand a word of it, but he’d talk my ear off some nights.” the knife platform began to slip but gabe caught it in time. “i’m no different. i wanted to be an artist; i wanted to be a happy, famous artist with a wife and kids and a house on the ocean with a giant studio and lots of easels and paint splatters on the floor.” he placed the pepper shaker on the knives and blinked hard. “but yeah, john was a good friend.” he scanned the table for more bricks. nothin’ left.

sarah’s tower stood about a foot-and-a-half tall, but gabe’s beat it by an inch. he smiled.

she pulled her cellphone from her dress pocket and placed it at the edge of the table. she looked at gabe, then intentionally bumped the phone to the floor.

out of nowhere, a waiter appeared to retrieve it.

“aw, thanks!” said jules. “could i bother you for a large handful of creamers?”

“of course,” said the waiter. “regular or decaf?”

“no coffee. just the creamers.” she winked.

gabe scowled playfully, then reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and phone, and began adding them to the tower.

“ass!” she said.

“i think you mean genius.”

“i said ‘ass’ and i meant it.”

“did your family ever go to church?” he asked. “are you religious?”

“big question for such a shitty tower builder.” 

“well?”

“not really. i assume everyone is religious around here?” 

“i believe in god and heaven. but church is boring.”

“what about hell? isn’t it a sin to kill yourself?” sarah jabbed his hand as he balanced the tepee-shaped wallet. “what about me? what happens tonight? do i go to hell?”

he shooed her hand. “bad topic to build towers over.”

“agreed.”

the waiter returned with ten creamers. sarah thanked him and stacked the plastic containers on top of the napkins until her leaning tower barely inched out gabe’s—

*  *  *

something crashed. jules shrieked.

trevor’s heart dropped. he leapt from the roof to the pavement and bounded halfway across the street before the sound of laughter halted his strides.

“damnit! i was so close!”

the boy cackled too. “looks like you're picking up the tab!”

a truck honked and trevor flipped it off. he turned from the center of the road and plodded back to his car.

*  *  *

“excuse me sir, my friend needs the check!”

sarah leaned over the parmesan remains of her salad and covered gabe’s mouth with her hand. “shh! i don’t have any money!” she released the hold on his lips, but her elbows held her face a foot from his.

“i’m sure they have a job opening in the kitchen,” he said. “just hope you’re better at washing dishes than you are at stacking them!”

“gabe! i’m serious!”

“calm down, darlin'.” he opened his wallet. “i wouldn’t make a girl pay on a date. i’m a romantic, remember?” he paused and looked up. “this IS a date, right?”

sarah grabbed his hand and whispered. “don’t. let’s just go.”

“go?”

“i’ll walk out first. count to thirty, then casually exit out the back. when you get out the door, bolt for the van.”

gabe lowered his voice. “hell no! i have the money. i’ll just pay it.”

“but i lost! you’ve never dined-and-dashed before?”

“nope. and i’m not gonna start now.”

“pussy. i’ll meet you outside.” sarah snatched his wallet, dropped it in her backpack, and walked across the restaurant.

gabe nibbled on his thumbnail and watched his date stop at the front counter. she spoke to the host. her dress flared seductively around her knees. she flipped her hair behind her shoulder and covered a giggle with the back of her hand. 

the host smiled, nodded, and walked to the back room.

sarah eyed gabe over the heads of the other patrons and flashed him a shit-eating grin.

the man returned a moment later cradling a bottle of wine. he presented it to sarah and she took it, slipped it in her bag, and clasped his hand in exaggerated gratitude. 

suddenly, she pointed to gabe and waved. the host followed her gesture, smiled and nodded.

“son of a bitch,” gabe muttered and reluctantly waved back.

he waited for sarah to leave and for the host to turn his back, then he patted his pockets and rustled out a wad of cash; four bucks and some change. he slipped the money beneath the pile of creamers, scanned for waiters, held his breath... and dashed out the back door.

*  *  *

jules sauntered in the magic-hour glow of a missing sun. the sidewalk was her runway and the bystanders eyed her form-tight dress as it shifted with her sensual promenade and sculpted curves.

gabe busted through the back door, looked both ways, and caught her laughing; grabbing her stomach and bracing herself on lifted knee.

“you weren’t captured?” she asked between fits.

“thanks for adding the wine to my guilt.”

“anytime, thief!”

gabe grabbed her wrist and stepped quickly. “you didn’t even need an ID! if you told that guy your real age, he'd still give you whatever you wanted.”

“i’m a girl. he’s a guy. what can i say?”

“yeah, but you’re...”

jules stopped. “i’m what?”

“nothin’. sorry.”

“what the hell? you think i’m ugly?”

“no! you’re just... emo.”

“i like to think of it as ‘classy goth.'”

“i’m sure it is! we're just not used to nose rings and eyebrow rings and... corsets. that’s all i meant. you’re gorgeous; with or without the getup.”

“ha!” she exclaimed. “you don’t know what i look like without makeup. i could be a lizard for all you know.”

“doubt it.”

inside, she smiled at the compliment. (although she didn’t see him when she left the dune grass grill, jules could feel trevor's glare like snake bites on the back of her neck.)