Swept Away by Henry L. Sullivan III

Author:Henry L. Sullivan III [Sullivan, Henry L. III]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: SULLIVAN SERIALS
Published: 2014-08-03T22:00:00+00:00

Refrigerated air cooled Sheila’s face. Her eyes adjusting to the glare, she blinked. Why did I come in here? Her condo was dark, except for the pale rectangle of light casting shadows across the kitchen. Sliding her free hand through the waist of her pajama bottom, Sheila scratched an itch just below her butt. She wasn’t hungry, really. But not wanting to waste the effort of leaving her bedroom, she reached into the box and grabbed a yogurt.

Sheila sighed into the silence. She was thoroughly tired of sleepless nights. Tired of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling alone and empty. There had been several years of this but thirty five was supposed to be different. That was the year she’d made tenure, an event she had foolishly hoped would be transformative. Full time faculty always seemed to have kids. Loving partners. Houses in the suburbs. Sheila glanced around her dark, somber condo and snorted. Where was her new life? Not even a damn dog had bothered to show up.

Sheila glanced down at the yogurt, and decided she needed something stronger. The last time she’d gotten drunk was on a trip last year to Mexico. That expensive bottle of tequila was still in the cabinet over the stove. Sheila was pretty sure she’d paid too much for the stuff, but the bartender’s lovely curls and deep brown eyes had put her in a mind to buy almost anything.

From the refrigerator and another set of cabinets she collected a lime, a package of salt, and a shot glass, as she tried to remember the bartender’s name. Was it Graciella? Sheila licked her hand, and poured the salt between her thumb and index finger, just as the woman had shown her.

Throwing her head back, Sheila downed the shot. An ember of warmth lit in her chest, and for a brief moment she was sitting once again on a stool at a tiny beach-front bar. It wasn’t the resort Sheila missed, but the easy, carefree space it created. The ability to sit with an intriguing stranger for hours, listening to her talk about how tequila was made, without having to worry about going to work the next morning, or about that person’s agenda.

Sheila sucked on a wedge of lime, grabbed the yogurt from the counter, walked into the living room, and collapsed onto the sofa. In exasperated haste, she lifted her hand to her face to shove a spoonful of yogurt into her mouth. She missed. Dollops of raspberry swirl tumbled like chilled mud upon her pajama top. “Shit!” When her cell phone chimed, Sheila threw her hands into the air. “Now who the hell could that be?”

More yogurt fell into her lap, as she let her hands drop. The phone chimed again, and Sheila narrowed her eyes. Only bad news and lovers ever call after midnight. Or at least that’s what she’d heard. The simple truth was Sheila never received calls at this hour. And she was certain there was no lover on the other end the line.

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