Read Online Magnolia Blossoms by Rhonda Dennis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rhonda Dennis
Tags: Humorous, Romance, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Romantic Comedy, General Humor, Humor & Satire
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sizes, and colors make suggestive gestures towards passersby. There is not a chance in hell that I’ll be stopping here for anything! Laurel Lane is the last place on the list, and I’m already apprehensive of what my options will be if it turns out to be a bust.
My thoughts are scattered as I turn down a long street that eventually dead ends. It’s not until I’m halfway down the darkened road that I begin to take notice of my surroundings. The people of Laurel Lane must not have very many sunshine yellow Vespas frequent the area, and the once packed street suddenly clears out. The houses are row after row of shotguns, all in various stages of decay. The area reeks of poverty and despair. Babies’ cries tangle with dogs’ barking, as do the sounds of extra loud televisions blaring through opened windows. Piles of refuse sit in front of nearly every house, making the street smell about as appealing as a sewer treatment plant. Seeing places like this on television and in movies doesn’t even come close to the reality of it all.
I spy an abandoned park off to the right, so I carefully guide my scooter between the askew, opened wrought iron gates, and prop it under some trees and bushes in a darkened corner. It’s not until I’ve hung my helmet from the handlebars that I scan the perimeter and realize that this isn’t a kiddie park; it’s a memorial park! I’m stricken with the overwhelming urge to wet my pants.
Graveyards completely freak me out—like bad. Really, really bad. So bad that I will go miles out of my way to bypass one, and here I am, all alone in the dank darkness, surrounded by row after row of decayed corpses. The fact that there is a thick layer of concrete, marble, or granite between me and said corpses does absolutely nothing to calm my nerves. My knees start to jiggle, my mouth runs dry, and when a leaf blows up against my leg, I bolt as though my life depends on it.
In my haste to retreat, my skirt snags on one of the frayed iron bars, and I take a tumble on the sidewalk. I survey the scuffs on my knees and right elbow. They’re mild abrasions, but they burn like hell! Trying to shake off the trauma I just experienced, I skirt the edge of the shadows as I continue further down the street.
After three blocks, I notice a woman standing at one of the corners. She’s leaned over, talking into the window of a pickup truck that is more rust than metal. Thick gray clouds of exhaust puff from the tailpipe, obscuring my view, but I hear her loudly telling the driver that he can’t afford her.
Doing my best to disappear into the night, I push my back against the frame of one of the nearby houses and slowly inch my way closer to the action. The truck takes off, and the extra tall woman is left coughing and hacking courtesy of the truck’s pollution heavy wake. I’m almost parallel to her, yet she has no clue I’m here. I feel empowered, like a lioness gearing up for a hunt. Why? I have no clue, but I sure am enjoying the new sensation.
As soon as the coughing spell eases up, she hocks a loogie onto the ground, pulls her oversized bag tightly onto her shoulder, and then sashays down the street. Tailing her, I sprint from shadow to shadow, carefully observing her every move. She’s not nearly as tall as I had originally assumed; the majority of her height comes from the giant, platinum blonde beehive hairdo she’s sporting. Her wardrobe consists of an extremely short red leather cut-out dress, black patent leather stiletto heels, and black thigh highs that have more holes than fabric. The bag she clutches close to her body doesn’t match her ensemble in any way, shape, or form, and is a floral needlepointed monstrosity unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
She continues further and further down the street, moving into an area where the streetlights no longer offer soft illumination of the area. I still hear the click, click, click, click of her heels against the pavement; it serves as a beacon,
My thoughts are scattered as I turn down a long street that eventually dead ends. It’s not until I’m halfway down the darkened road that I begin to take notice of my surroundings. The people of Laurel Lane must not have very many sunshine yellow Vespas frequent the area, and the once packed street suddenly clears out. The houses are row after row of shotguns, all in various stages of decay. The area reeks of poverty and despair. Babies’ cries tangle with dogs’ barking, as do the sounds of extra loud televisions blaring through opened windows. Piles of refuse sit in front of nearly every house, making the street smell about as appealing as a sewer treatment plant. Seeing places like this on television and in movies doesn’t even come close to the reality of it all.
I spy an abandoned park off to the right, so I carefully guide my scooter between the askew, opened wrought iron gates, and prop it under some trees and bushes in a darkened corner. It’s not until I’ve hung my helmet from the handlebars that I scan the perimeter and realize that this isn’t a kiddie park; it’s a memorial park! I’m stricken with the overwhelming urge to wet my pants.
Graveyards completely freak me out—like bad. Really, really bad. So bad that I will go miles out of my way to bypass one, and here I am, all alone in the dank darkness, surrounded by row after row of decayed corpses. The fact that there is a thick layer of concrete, marble, or granite between me and said corpses does absolutely nothing to calm my nerves. My knees start to jiggle, my mouth runs dry, and when a leaf blows up against my leg, I bolt as though my life depends on it.
In my haste to retreat, my skirt snags on one of the frayed iron bars, and I take a tumble on the sidewalk. I survey the scuffs on my knees and right elbow. They’re mild abrasions, but they burn like hell! Trying to shake off the trauma I just experienced, I skirt the edge of the shadows as I continue further down the street.
After three blocks, I notice a woman standing at one of the corners. She’s leaned over, talking into the window of a pickup truck that is more rust than metal. Thick gray clouds of exhaust puff from the tailpipe, obscuring my view, but I hear her loudly telling the driver that he can’t afford her.
Doing my best to disappear into the night, I push my back against the frame of one of the nearby houses and slowly inch my way closer to the action. The truck takes off, and the extra tall woman is left coughing and hacking courtesy of the truck’s pollution heavy wake. I’m almost parallel to her, yet she has no clue I’m here. I feel empowered, like a lioness gearing up for a hunt. Why? I have no clue, but I sure am enjoying the new sensation.
As soon as the coughing spell eases up, she hocks a loogie onto the ground, pulls her oversized bag tightly onto her shoulder, and then sashays down the street. Tailing her, I sprint from shadow to shadow, carefully observing her every move. She’s not nearly as tall as I had originally assumed; the majority of her height comes from the giant, platinum blonde beehive hairdo she’s sporting. Her wardrobe consists of an extremely short red leather cut-out dress, black patent leather stiletto heels, and black thigh highs that have more holes than fabric. The bag she clutches close to her body doesn’t match her ensemble in any way, shape, or form, and is a floral needlepointed monstrosity unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
She continues further and further down the street, moving into an area where the streetlights no longer offer soft illumination of the area. I still hear the click, click, click, click of her heels against the pavement; it serves as a beacon,
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