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Fiction Short Story

Greg Lilly

Greg Lilly is an author and computer technologist in Charlotte, NC. After being warned that technical writing shouldn't involve characters and plots, he decided to take up fiction. He is a member of the Great Charlotte Writers Group, an eleven-year-old critique group of diverse writers who enjoy the process of writing as much as the finished product. Greg has written over sixteen short stories and is currently working on his second novel.

"SpringFest Encounter"

Greg Lilly

I saw her looking at an art nouveau vase. Her delicate hands glided across the smooth ceramic, tracing the etched pink arches on the sides of a lime rectangle. I swear I heard angels sing when she glanced in my direction and smiled.

The downtown streets of Charlotte had been filled with people in shorts, t-shirts, and sunglasses; a big change from the dark suits and starched white shirts of most Friday afternoons. SpringFest, an annual rite of the season, had started. Artist exhibits and vendor tents displaying everything from pottery to funnel cakes lined Tryon Street.

I cut out of the bank early to meet some friends at street level for a few beers and some people watching. Changing clothes in the bathroom and taking the elevator down to the lobby, I emerged into the bright sunshine and saw Mickey, Clyde, and Austin waiting at the corner of Trade and Tryon. Clyde, still wearing his dark blue business suit, looked like a teddybear ready for a meeting , all business, no fun, until the beer started flowing and he turned into Mr. Personality.

He's a fun drunk. Too bad that can't be said about Mickey, all gloom and doom, crying about his wife leaving. At least he changed into appropriate clothes: shorts and a tee shirt, like me. Maybe he was on the upswing. As for Austin, he's our "babe bait." Good looking kid, but gay as they come and proud of it. Women are attracted to his innocent look : doe eyed and prettier than a lot of girls I've dated. Austin will strike up a conversation with a woman and then introduce us to her. He hooks her; all we have to do is reel her in. So, there they stood like the Three Stooges waiting for something to happen.

"Let's get a beer, boys." I yelled as I walked past their stag line and punched Clyde in his starched cotton covered gut. They followed me tot he nearest beer truck that I found easily by the tangy smell of cold beer spilled on hot concrete. The girl taking money at the truck flirted with Austin as we waited in line. I turned to Mickey and winked; I knew it was going to be a babe bonanza. Personally, I've never had a hard time meeting women; it's the other two guys who need the help.

After some discussion on what to do next, we decided to split up. Clyde and Austin, lured by the hickory smoke billowing from the grills at the "Taste of Charlotte" tents, left to get something to eat. Mickey and I decided to check out the artists' displays and walk up to the stage where beach music echoed off the surrounding buildings. That's when I saw her looking at some pottery. Had she really smiled at me?

The streets had begun to fill up as 5 o'clock approached. A group of laughing teenage girls cut me off as I tried to make my way to the pottery tent. By the time I was there, she was gone. She was blonde and blue-eyed like the ideal woman of my childhood: Olivia Newton-John. The faint scent of a floral perfume lingered. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to burn this fragrance into my memory.

Mickey had kept on walking, so I yelled that I'd catch up with him at the stage. I had to find this woman. I couldn't see her in any direction. She was tall with blonde gossamer hair and the face of an angel . I knew that much. I saw a heavyset woman hoist herself off a nearby bench, so I pushed my way over and stepped up on the creaky wood slats to see over the crowd. No Olivia. If she was looking at art, she might be in one of the tents and hidden from my vantage point.

Now the problem was in which direction to start looking. I was at Fifth Street and the artist tents stretched up and down Tryon. If I went in the wrong direction, I would be moving away from her and might never see her again. In my mind, we had already had our first date. It had been a great success and she couldn't wait to see me again. Of course, I hadn't tried anything sexual with her, she was too pure.

I frantically searched each tent one after the other. Couples with strollers slowed me down. Didn't they understand they impeded my chance to come to SpringFest with a stroller?

I thought I saw her in a craft tent, the kind of tent where you can buy a wooden, goose-shaped coat rack with a blue ribbon tied around the goose's neck; this I consider a craft and not art. Would I really want a woman who liked this type of stuff? What if her idea of a wonderful vacation was Myrtle Beach? What if she was a Republican? What would she teach our kids?

Would she wear Laura Ashley clothes and get frumpy after the wedding? I wanted her to make heads turn when we walked by; to be a virgin when I finally convince her I'm Mr. Right and we spend the weekend in a mountain cabin; to know how to please me like no woman ever has in spite of being a virgin; to love my friends; to like football, fishing, theater, pasta, and my dog Ralph; to have her own career (making slightly less than me); to be my best friend. Basically, I wanted her to be a female version of me.

A sudden cool breeze swirled the scent of lavender around me. Olivia had to be close, that was her perfume. A glimpse of sparkling gold shimmered in the tree filtered sunlight near the sidewalk. There she was, scraping the remnants of a chili dog off the bottom of her sandal onto the curb. How dainty she looked. Her face was filled with cool determination for the task at hand.

I approached. My heart beat faster. What would I say? These next few moments would determine my happiness for the rest of my life. I decided to offer my help with her current dilemma. She had one hand on a Bradford Pear and the other held her lovely hair out of those Carolina blue eyes as she raked her sandal on the curb. My head began to spin. I managed to say: "Can I help you with that?" I gestured toward the problem sandal.

"Them goddamn kids," she huffed "just throw their trash down here anywhere. I just bought these shoes at the Walmart. You didn't see who did this, did you? I'd like to rub his nose in this shit. Damn, damn, damn." She searched the surrounding crowd for the culprit, scratched her ass, and then continued to scrape the sandal.

I noticed she had tiny light hairs on her thighs; she must only shave to the knee.

Her wide feet, highlighted by chipped pink nail polish, were crammed into cherry red sandals. Now my head was spinning so fast I almost lost my balance. My gaze went back up, looking for something stable and soothing to steady my mind. Somehow during her struggle with the offending chili dog, she had become partially free of her strapless bra. Her sundress now had one free wheeling breast and one constrained. The situation reminded me of a Georgia O'Keeffe painting: I wanted to look away, but the unexpected eroticism spellbound me.

She interrupted my thoughts. "God, I need a beer. If you want to help, stop gawking and get me a beer." She was now picking the last stubborn scraps off with a twig. "Damn, I need a cigarette, got one?"

What had I been thinking? Quick exit.

"You stay right there. I'll get you a beer and a napkin for that sandal." I almost ran from her.

I saw Clyde and Austin walking down the street and I jogged up to them. "The Antichrist is here disguised as a woman in sandals." I made Austin change shirts with me so if she saw me again, she might not recognize me. We meet up with Mickey and headed back into the crowd for more babe-cruising. This time, I would be more careful.

That's when I saw her...