Someone's Been Sleeping In My Bed Page 3
Over the door of the town grocery store hung a sign that simply read ‘Grocery Store’. Small towns had no need of brands when the owner could generally be found behind the cash register. Skye dragged her disheveled form across the wooden decking and made the bell over the door ring as she entered the store. Its interior was laid out in the shape of a butterfly, with all the general goods laid out to the left and right. The counter with the cashier was directly opposite the door so anyone who entered could be seen as they did. And seen Skye was. The young man’s cowlick had all the boyish-country charm a lifetime of fresh air could grow. The rest of him was a bonus. His features weren’t chiseled by hours in overcrowded, late afternoon gyms, but by early-morning rides in a ute putting out hay bales for live stock. They were formed by rough-housing, deep breaths and long walks. Skye hated him immediately, but wanted nothing more than his breath on her neck.
“Mornin’.” He sung in her direction.
Skye looked at him, and without actually looking down, looked at herself through the memory of the mirror she had stared into before she left the cottage. Her eyes grew wide.
“... hi.” Was all she could muster.
His brow furrowed and his head cocked.
“Need a hand?”
Skye quickly brushed her hair back and tried to smooth out her clothing.
“Oh no, it’s just that I was in an accident and, yes, I don’t usually look like this.”
A quick smile grew across the boy’s face.
“I meant,” his hand sweeping out to gesture to the things in the store, “with something?”
Skye’s eyes grew wide again. A nervous laughter forced its way out the lower part of her mouth.
“Of course. No, I’m fine thanks.” And she quickly hurried behind the nearest shelf.
“Not a problem. Right here if you do.” He volunteered naturally as he turned his attention back to the stocktake ledger in front of him.
What are you, fifteen? Skye quietly chastised herself for her babbling in front of this country bumpkin. He didn’t warrant that kind of vulnerability. She turned to look at him, through the slots in the shelves, as if to confirm her suspicions. And for a moment time slowed for Skye. In the annals of her mind a soundtrack, she quite possibly had never heard of, began to play, and without much thought at all, Skye wondered what the skin on his forearms felt like. Instinctively her left arm crossed her midriff and she begun running the top two-thirds of her fingers along her own forearm. Her eyes shot forward and her neck snapped to the side in the quick kind of unnatural motion owls were known for. She turned briskly and begun to meander through the aisles, putting the young man at her back so she wouldn’t be distracted.
Skye was standing in one corner of the store surrounded by huge bags of grains. She heard him approaching behind her and busied herself with appearing as though she was fervently deep in thought.
“The oats are particularly good.”
She craned her head around casually.
“Yes, but who really needs that much?” She gestured towards the largest bags that were the size of an overweight eleven year old.
“I doubt anyone would eat it even if they did buy it. Pretty tasteless stuff but the horses seem to like it.”
Skye’s face flushed as she turned it away from the young man. The smile on the right side of his mouth was back again, without a hint of sarcasm, like he was trying to smile for her, because she couldn’t, and he was doing quite a beautiful job. And again she was staring.
“The oats I can vouch for though. Seeing as I grew’em myself.”
Skye wasn’t entirely sure what oats were, besides a carbohydrate she had avoided since swearing off them at fifteen. This, however, did not stop her from buying a bag. A large bag. Enough for several fat eleven year olds.
“You won’t even need to salt ’em, maybe just a little honey.” She heard him say as she exited the shop, and as she was trudging her way home, one imminent question resonated around her head. How does one cook oats, exactly?
Cooking oats - Step 1: Add Fire.
Back in the cottage Skye stood in the opening of the kitchen like a gladiator. A lifetime of eating out and drinking vitamin-infused water had left her completely out of her depth when it came to legitimately cooking. It was something she crossed off her list many years ago as being unnecessary. You don’t pay to live that close to everything just so you have do it all yourself. Now facing down the prospect of starving, she went into her core looking for resolve. You are a strong, independent, modern woman she told herself. That doesn’t know a damned thing about cooking.
The kitchen itself was a cook’s dream. A long bench top that ran the length of the wall. An old wood oven that crisped things in only the way wood can. An island in the center that was entirely intended for chopping. All this was, of course, completely lost on Skye. She stared blankly at the bag of oats as though it was a rock from space. She had no reference point for even approaching it. Her hand dug itself inside her pocket and removed her iPhone. She held it in front of her face and for a moment she paused, feeling like a complete idiot.
“Siri, how do you cook oats?”
At first the smartphone was impassive, not responding automatically to the sheer naiveté of the question, as though it had ignored it, and rightfully so, but a heartbeat later the device lived up to its title and smartly begun addressing the issue. Processing read its screen. The seconds became moments and the foolishness of the question had Skye contemplating putting the phone back in her pocket when the passive-aggressive voice of a robotic woman, who was quite sexually unsatisfied, spoke up.
“Would you like me to search the web for ‘How to cook “oats”’?”
Was it... mocking her? Skye was infuriated. She would not be taunted by an inanimate object, let alone a sexually unsatisfied one. She put the phone aside and went gathering the necessary items to cook oats. Whatever they were.
All of fifteen minutes later Skye was sprinting up the street towards the grocery store, her hair stinking of smoke, clothes spotted with patches of a slimy substance that was once rolled oats, and her pride all but ashes. She burst through the door, instantly drawing the attention of several townsfolk and the cashier.
He looked her up and down and smiled,
“How were the oats?”
Skye was too shocked to notice his barnyard sarcasm. The other people at the counter parted as she approached it.
“The cottage. Fire. Help.”
Halfway through the word ‘fire’, he had his apron off and was making his way around the counter. The other customers instinctively made room for him, their families were as familiar with fires as any fire department. Living on the land meant being at the mercy of its mood, and often it would turn fiery without much warning.
The young man scooped up the fire extinguisher hanging alongside the door and was down the street before Skye had caught another breath. She turned to an elderly lady.
“But... how does he know... where I live?”
Skye arrived back at the cottage as the last of the smoke cleared the chimney. She pushed open the front door and made her way to the kitchen. The young man was nursing the interior of the microwave as she entered. It was covered in foam, as was much of the stove and oven, the fire on them had been extinguished.
“ I don’t know what happened. One minute the oats were cooking just fine. Then the microwave exploded.”
“Water molecules in the oats. Also, did you add sugar?”
Skye looked sheepish. She hadn’t liked the taste of the oats and had decided to sweeten them to high heaven.
“Um, was that wrong?”
The sweat beaded down his brow and he smiled.
“Well it depends how you like them. I prefer honey over exploded, but I guess they do things different in the City.”
The nonchalance of his quip broke through the tension and smoke, and for
the first time since she had arrived, Skye smiled.
“I doubt it was your cooking that caused the fire. Some pretty shoddy electrical work most likely. I’ll check the fuse box and cook the rest of these oats.”
He said it in passing like it was already done and Skye was thankful to not have to argue the point.
“But what about the store? Shouldn’t you be getting back?”
That smile of his grew back across his face.
“It works a little different around here, the word fire is taken pretty seriously. When I do get back to the store, people will just have left money for what they have taken, or pay next time.”
Skye couldn’t believe what she was hearing. People weren’t really like that, this was just some myth the ‘Country’ liked to tout over those from the city; that what the city gained in progress, they lost in humanity.
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Oh, a clairvoyant too, are we?” Skye gained some of her composure back and retorted with some big city cheek.
The young man’s shoulder shrugged up as he answered.
“Nah, you were just thinking awfully loud.”
“Wouldn’t get too much of that around these parts, I bet.” She tested the water to see how much a touch of sarcasm might play.
“Not enough time to think around here, too much to do.” His reply was earnest and Skye thought it best to move on.
“Would you mind if I cleaned myself up a little? This morning you caught me half-asleep. And this afternoon, well it appears as if you have