No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service
Flash Fiction
He slipped off his shoes, tucked them under the bench, and wiggled his bare toes. Better, but still not comfortable. He rubbed his damp soles against the carpet, drying them. Once again he wiggled his toes. Better, but still… Without thought, he pulled his sweat-soaked T-shirt off. After his morning run, his torso remained slick. The breeze began to dry him, wicking the moisture from his skin, cooling him. Much better. Wetness pooled at his waist, sweat dripped down the crack of his butt. Without standing, he removed his shorts, hung them over the edge of the bench. So much better. He leaned back, but his back, still perspiring, slipped against the surface so he sat forward again. He leaned his forearms on his legs, but there too the water of him pooled in an uncomfortable way, so he straightened up once more.
The run, that hill, up to the crest, along the trail there — probably a sheep trail — out to the edge of the cliff: he’d run to the edge, to the spot where the rocks tumbled off the edge. He could see for miles and miles into the desert valley from this vantage. He turned and ran back, with views for miles and miles into the desert. How had those huge sheep held purchase here on the trails, where his cross-trainers slipped on the slick rocks.
It was still too soon for a shower. If he showered now he’d remain wet all morning. No, the best thing to do was to wait, to cool down, to allow his body to dry. He could take off his underwear, but knew a public morals charge wouldn’t do his career any wonders. So, he sat, hoping for the breeze to return, hoping he’d cool off and dry off and then he could head home for his shower.
A shimmering blue-green hummingbird caught his attention. It hovered, drank nectar from a purple Chaste Tree flower, then from another before zipping away.
“Sir?”
The sound startled. A person, here?
“Sir?” the voice buzzed against him. “Sir. You must wear your shoes and shirt here.”
“What?” he asked the voice. Sheep and birds and desert landscape leapt from his brain.
“And your pants.” The voice belonged to a person.
“Where?” The grinding drowned out the world in his head. Smell of coffee replaced his thoughts.
“Sir, several customers have complained about your state of…well…undress.”
He saw him for the first time. A young man with blue hair, a vibrant blue-green hummingbird tattoo on his forearm, a green apron, a nametag: Nick.
“Sir, I have to ask you to leave.”
