Untouchable by Scott O'Connor

Author:Scott O'Connor
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Adams Media
Published: 2011-06-01T07:00:00+00:00

She was sitting on the steps outside a Pico Boulevard apartment complex when Darby first saw her. A Saturday afternoon in early fall. He was working floral delivery at the time, a job he’d held for the better part of a year, driving a purple van with a painting of a group of smiley-faced, slightly unhinged-looking flowers waving on the side. He drove slowly, twisting his head under the windshield, searching in vain for house numbers, something resembling an address, and then there she was, sitting on the steps, reading a newsmagazine, smoking a cigarette. Jeans, white t-shirt, glasses, blond hair tucked back behind her ears. Barefoot. The magazine in one hand, cover folded back, the cigarette in the fingers of her other hand. Legs crossed, foot dangling. Looking bored, annoyed, a little put off. He knew the flowers were for her even before he saw the number on the wall above her head. He double-parked the van, climbed into the back, checked the name on the card. Lucille. Made sense, somehow. She looked like a Lucille. He opened the box. Six roses, the industry-standard peace offering. He opened the card. An apology from someone named Roger. He hopped out onto the street, headed up the sidewalk. Took another glance at how she held the cigarette, how her foot dangled, that formidable look on her face as she read the magazine, the cigarette in the corner of her mouth as she turned the page, squint-eyed in the smoke. Lucille. Darby crumpled, then pocketed, the card.

She lifted her head when he got closer, looked him over, the long white box in his hand, the tattoos, the purple polo shirt with the smiling flowers on the chest. He was suddenly, abnormally self-conscious, wishing he had something else to wear in the van, a jacket, something to cover up that ridiculous shirt.

She took a drag on the cigarette as she watched him approach.

“Hey, look,” he said. “I’m at the end of my shift and I’ve got this unclaimed delivery.”

She lifted her eyebrows over the rims of her glasses, nodded, not particularly interested.

“They’re just going to sit in the van, die on the way back to the shop.”

“Are you offering them to me?”

“I’ll trade you. You got another cigarette?”

“What are they?”

“Roses.”

“What color?”

“Red.”

She thought about this, took another drag on the cigarette. Reached for her pack on the step behind her, shook one out, handed it to Darby.

“That happen a lot?” she said. “Unclaimed delivery?”

“You don’t believe me?”

She passed him a lighter. “I just don’t want to take somebody else’s flowers.”

“Unclaimed delivery,” he said. “Happens more than you’d think.”

He blew off the rest of his shift. They sat and talked for the better part of an hour, and as he left they made a date for later in the week. The next day, he came up with maybe the first-ever mental catalogue of the all the clothes he owned, everything crammed into his closet or heaped on the floor of his apartment. T-shirts, jeans, work pants, boots.

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