The story of Vanessa’s generator and the Fisheries installation had spread across the island and then across the water. I went from being the newest deckie at the Abrolhos to the miracle sparky who could fix anything. I had skippers offering to do my deckie duties while I fixed their wiring. Skipper turned them down, refusing to take any other skipper over his “lucky deckie” on his boat, which meant my hours off the boat were suddenly in demand. I no longer had clean-up duties at the club.
It was almost two weeks later before I could keep my eyes open after dark. I seemed to step off the boat from the day’s fishing only to be accosted by someone who needed an electrician to replace corroded wiring, repair the generator or take a look at their satellite dish. By the time I got home, with a pocket full of cash, an armload more beer and a stomach full of whatever dinner the happy fisher was only too pleased to share with me, I barely managed to collapse on my bed before I was out for the night.
On Friday night, I found myself home before dark, as a job that had looked really difficult turned out to be five minutes of reconnecting wiring. For the first time in a week, I was forced to rely on my own meagre cooking skills. As I finished up my dinner, I thought about what I might do that evening. I figured I’d manage to stay awake for a couple of hours yet. My first thought was to get out of my shack, so no one could bang on my door to ask me to come over and just take a look at their…whatever. The whatever would still need fixing tomorrow and I wanted a night off.
Once out of my place, my feet carried me to Vanessa’s veranda, almost of their own volition. I knocked on the door. I heard her swear, before I heard her approach. She swung the door open.
I’d backed away from the door when I’d heard her swear. It was safer to be off the veranda and headed home if she didn’t want me there.
“Who is it?” she asked, peering into the dark. She wore a pale blue singlet top with her little shorts today, giving me a tantalising view of her cleavage from clear across the veranda. In her hands was a bowl of ice cream. She lifted a spoon to her mouth, which hovered in mid-air when she noticed me.
She jumped in surprise. “Joe! What can I help you with?” The ice cream jumped with her – right off the spoon to splatter on her chest. It melted quickly on her warm skin, trickling between her breasts in a milky pink smear. She looked down. “Oh shit.”
She swiped ineffectually at the ice cream with her hand, then snatched up a tea towel and dabbed at herself.
I want to bury my face in your boobs and taste that ice cream.
I realised I was staring at her and looked away, hoping she hadn’t noticed.
“I’m sorry, Joe,” she said. “Help yourself to a beer and some ice cream, if you like. I’ll just go get cleaned up and put on a fresh shirt.” She hurried out of the kitchen.
Oh my God. What I’d give for you to take that singlet off and let me lick ice cream from your tits. You wouldn’t even need a fresh shirt...I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t voice the offer I was dying to make.
I went over to the fridge and pulled out a beer.
“There. That’s better,” Vanessa said cheerfully behind me.
I turned around, taking a mouthful of beer. I almost spat it out again.
She’d evidently cleaned herself up in the bathroom and put on an equally pale blue t-shirt instead. She’d forgotten to dry herself, though, and I could see her blue lace bra clearly through the transparent t-shirt clinging to her damp skin.
“So did you want to go drink on the veranda or stay in here?” she asked me, getting herself a beer from the fridge.
“Oh, in here, I guess,” I stammered. The light’s better in the kitchen and this is a view I do not want to miss, I thought, as I sat across from her at the kitchen table.
That night I dreamed about Vanessa in blue lace.