S.S. Atlantus

As she hangs out on the bench in front of the drugstore after work, looking out at the ocean, eating a Snickers bar, drinking a diet Pepsi and sort of waiting for Tommy to come by, she begins to entertain the idea that, like an astrologer studying the stars, maybe she can foretell the future of her summer from the color of the lanterns hanging in the rigging of the tall masted schooner moored in the harbor next to the remains of the concrete cargo ship S.S. Atlantus, that weird World War One experiment the government had finally given up on because – duh – concrete doesn’t float very well, and as she’s thinking this she’s idly curling her bare toes around what she now realizes with disgust is a popsicle stick but, perversely, she clenches it even tighter, lifting it off the ground, trying to convince herself that maybe it’s Tommy’s old popsicle stick and therefore not so gross because it’s only been in his mouth and she’s kissed that same mouth so many times, had the tongue that licked it practically shoved down her throat, and she tries to bring it high enough to drop it in the planter box at the edge of the sidewalk only it catches on the lip and tumbles down, back to the dirt and cobwebs where it came from as she’s distracted by the ship lanterns being lit, a red one flickering to life then a green one, meaning, she supposes, stop then go, that not at first but eventually this summer she’ll give in to Tommy and let him do everything he wants to, only it has to be a night when absolutely everything is exactly right, when there’s only green lights in the rigging, and the seagulls aren’t going crazy fighting over an old hot dog on the beach, and he manages to show up on time without flirting with every college girl waitress he meets on the boardwalk – yes, it’s all decided, foretold, she concludes as her toes, seemingly of their own accord, begin feeling around for the popsicle stick again…