SwedenSara Week 57: Blueberry Muffins et al.

SwedenSara
Friday


Picture 1

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SwedenSara’s Choice: Picture 1


Title: Blueberry muffins et al.
I sighed in relief as I sat down on the bench outside the motel, slipped my shoes off and stretched my legs. It was so good to finally get out of those heels, and I wiggled my toes, relishing the feeling of air drifting across my legs and cooling my swollen feet. I wasn't used to spending so much time in that kind of shoes, and I definitely didn’t plan on doing it again anytime soon. Those shoes were a part of today’s costume and a meek attempt to comply with my parents expectations to look at least a bit feminine during the annual family get-together. It was a completely pointless and highly unnecessary thing to do. My relatives had seen me since I was a kid, and they were all aware of my tomboy ways. The only times they ever saw me in skirt and heels were at those get-togethers, so I really didn’t understand who my parents thought they were fooling. In my opinion, it was silly.

The hardened gel in my hair was annoying me to no end, and I ruffled it with my hands to get rid of the stiffness. I wanted my hair back to the soft state I was used to, not that stupid, shiny helmet of a hair-do that my mother thought fitted the strict, figure-hugging outfit she’d picked out for me. At the age of twenty-five, I still felt like a small girl when my mother was around. She kept dressing me up like a doll, every chance she got, and played the old guilt card on me whenever I objected. It usually ended up with her getting her way, and me suffering away in something way more girly than I felt comfortable with. As the years progressed, girly got exchanged for sexy, which got exchanged for feminine. That made me wonder what was next - ladylike when I hit thirty? Old spinster for my fortieth birthday? Shroud at the age of fifty?

I shrugged out of the tight jacket and hung it over the backrest before picking up my cup of coffee. The heat emanated from the paper cup and the distinct scent of freshly made cappuccino wafted through the air and into my nostrils. The blueberry muffin sat beside me on the bench, tempting me, and I eyed it as I sipped the hot liquid.

“Oh, don’t you worry, Miss Muffin, I’ll deal with you later.” I smirked at it, and snorted internally at the double meaning. I would definitely want to deal with someone’s muffin later, unfortunately I had no Miss whatsoever whose muffin I could expect to get in close vicinity of. The last muffins I’d had the pleasure of eating all had blueberry or chocolate flavor, and as tasty as that was, it didn’t quite get me off.

A shadow fell over me and I heard someone clear her voice. I peeked up at a girl, approximately my age, carrying a Starbucks cup and a blueberry muffin just like mine.

“Is this seat free” she asked and nodded to the space next to me on the bench, “or is it taken by that muffin of yours?”

Since my mind was already in the gutter and all, the words that came out of my mouth were not at all what they should have been.

“Which muffin? I have two.”

She snorted before answering. “The blueberry one. I’d like the other one to stay where it is for now. I could use some company.”

It took me a second too long to find my voice again, and I moved my muffin - the blueberry one - as I replied.
“Sure, have a seat. I’ll just keep my muffins over here. Both of them.”

She smiled at me and sat down, and I exhaled slowly in relief. Apparently this girl had at least some sense of humor. I stole a better look at her through the corner of my eye as she fiddled around with her cup and the muffin. She was shorter than me, maybe five foot two, and quite curvy. She had low cut jeans that hugged her behind in a becoming way, and a dark grey, washed out tee with a red cherry followed by the caption “Bomb” on it, which could only be a Runaways reference. She was pretty, too, in a natural way, with little to no make-up, blue eyes, shoulder-length blond hair and short, stubby fingernails with black, partly abraded nail polish. She looked like I would have, had my mother not happened to me this morning.

“I like your tee,” I said and nodded towards her chest, letting my eyes linger a fraction of a second too long on her breasts. She looked up at me, surprised.

“You do?” she asked, her eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, I always had a thing for Cherie Currie,” I answered, wondering if she would catch on to what I implied with that comment.

“Wow. Uhm... No offense, but you don’t look like that kind of girl. I mean, the Runaways-listening kind.” She eyed me sceptically, and I huffed loudly.

“Tell me about it. My mother isn’t too keen on the rock chick style, and she definitely doesn’t find it appropriate for big, annual family gatherings. She vetoed my first choice of outfit and put me into this instead.” I gestured over my skirt-clad legs.

“Poor you, having to wear heels and skirt for mommy,” she said sympathetically. “Don’t worry, though. It looks good on you. Not rock chick good, but definitely... very nice.” I thought I saw her eyes drift along my legs, but I wasn’t sure.

“Well, in that case, thank you very much.” I lifted my coffee cup to her. “Hey, cheers for Cherie Curry and rock chicks.”

She put her cup against mine, and answered in a serious tone. “To Cherie Curry and rock chicks - although I always fancied Joan Jett.”

I took a long sip of coffee, mulling over that last comment. It could mean two things. Either she just liked her as a musician, or she was hinting that she in fact did like girls, just like I did when mentioning Cherie in the first place.

Maybe she did check out my legs. One could only hope. I was tired of only eating blueberry flavored muffins that came in a paper bag.

“So...” I began, “what brings you to this neighborhood?” I turned my body slightly against her, and noticed she mirrored my movement. Our knees almost, but not entirely touched. I wanted to inch closer to see if she would back away. I didn’t dare, so I stayed perfectly still, waiting for her answer.

“I’m here auditioning for a band, actually. I’m staying in the motel,” she said, motioning to the entrance of the motel behind us.

“No way! This motel? I’m staying here, too. Although I’m not auditioning for a band; I’m not cool enough. I’m here meeting my relatives and playing girly-girl for mom,” I explained.

“What do you mean, not cool? You wear heels and like The Runaways. That’s way cooler than me. I can’t even walk in heels, which is why I keep wearing those old chucks.” She looked down on her feet and wiggled them, making her legs coming very close to mine with every move. I kept my legs still, stupid as usual, and watched her shoes.

“I envy your chucks. They are a lot more comfortable than those heels. I walk in them alright, mom had me practising since I was thirteen and she thought I needed to start acting more like a girl,” I admitted.

“She did what? Did you actually practise walking in heels?” Her eyes grew big, reminding me of some character from those manga books my little cousins were reading all the time.

“Sure I did,” I answered. “She made me prance around like a model on a runway, with her in front showing me how to move, and me following after, trying to mimic the way she swayed her hips as she walked. So stupid...” I shook my head and laughed.

“You have to show me,” she said in a serious voice.

“Uhm, I don’t think so,” I exclaimed.

“Pleeease,” she whined, “show me the sway. I want to see you prance!”

I sighed heavily, just for good measure, before I smiled, put my shoes back on and got up. I did the full routine in front of her, the runway-walk and a little twirl at the end. She watched me in silence, with her mouth partly open, and as I turned back after my twirl I thought I saw the tip of her tongue slip out and lick her lips. I blinked, and it was gone so quickly I decided it must have been wishful thinking. After all, why would a hot, band auditioning rock chick be interested in some average Annie dressed up like a secretary?

“So, what do you think? Mom’s lady-training pay out?”

“Oh believe me, it did.” She nodded, in what I hoped was appreciation, but I wasn’t quite sure.

I bowed my head down as I sat on the bench again, trying to hide the faint blush that was about to break out. I reached for the jacket and pulled out my phone in an attempt to draw the attention from my facial area, pretending to check for missed calls.

“Expecting a text or something?” she asked, her tone casual but a tad more curious than I’d expected. “Boyfriend missing you?”

My head jerked up.

“What? No! Nothing like that, I just... I don’t do boyfriends.”

“No? Girlfriend wondering where you’re hiding?” she asked, her fingers plucking at some invisible thread on her jeans.

“Uhm, no, I... I don’t have a girlfriend. Well, I have friends who are girls, of course, but no girlfriend.” I creased my eyebrows, trying to figure out what she was asking, and how to answer without making a fool of myself.

“You don’t do girlfriends either?” Her voice was low, questioning and curious. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I took the easy way out by going a completely different direction with my answer.

“I was just checking to see if any relatives were wondering where I went... I kinda left early. But it seems like no one’s noticed. Either that, or they don’t care.”

She tilted her head and watched me in silence, as I yapped on about Uncle Dave and his ulcer, all the time wishing my mouth would stop talking. Her warm hand suddenly appeared on my knee, squeezing it gently and effectively shutting me up. I stared at her black fingernails contrasting against my charcoal skirt.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have to go. Audition and all, you know.”

“Oh, okay...” I said, instantly regretting my verbal diarrhea. Of course she would want to go after my tirade about stupid relatives and their not-so-interesting health issues.

“But hey, I’ll be back in a couple of hours, and maybe we could go grab a beer or something? I’d love to hear more about Aunt Agatha and her toe corns.”

“Yeah right. ‘Cause Aunt Agatha’s toe corns are soooo interesting...” I snorted, still looking at her hand on my knee.

“I’m serious. Well, not about Aunt Agatha. But I’d really like to see you again. I’ll tell you what, I’ll write my room number down, and you drop by at, say, six o’clock, if you’d like. I’ll wait until six-thirty, and if you’re not there by then I get the hint.”

She took her empty Starbucks cup and fished out a black felt-tip from her jeans. She scribbled something down on the cup and put it next to my half eaten blueberry muffin.

“I hope I’ll see you later. And you can keep the heels on, if you want to.” She winked at me and left before I could come up with a witty response. I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened. Did she ask me out? In spite of Uncle Dave and Aunt Agatha? And did she really want me to keep the heels on?

I looked at my feet, crammed into the black strap heels, and pursed my lips. My feet did look pretty good in them. And they did wonders for my legs and ass, without a doubt.

Yep, the heels stay on. But the skirt and blouse have to go. I turned the coffee cup around, looking for her room number, and there it was. 11E.

I took my jacket and stood up, brushing blueberry muffin off my skirt, and headed towards my room. If I remembered correctly, I had a pair of skinny jeans and a Ziggy Stardust tee in my suitcase.

This might just be the night when I finally got to eat some real muffin again.

Like I said - one could only hope...