Lavendre
07-26-2007, 11:06 AM
I started writing this for fun in my spare time. It's a story about an unlikely relationship between a UPS man and a Sweet Lolita... here's what i have done so far! Hope it makes you happy! :D
Tight-Laced
It was all in a flash of streaking white and hot pink checkers, enveloped in a scream that outdid the rusty brakes that I almost didn’t slam fast enough. Her little bitty dog cowered, ears plastered flat as paper against her foxy head, its owner hyperventilating as she gripped her frilly white ankle.
Even through the grimy windshield, they were the wonkiest shoes I’d seen in my entire life. I couldn’t take them in fast enough, though, as my eyeballs went haywire over the mass of gingham and trim she had bundled herself under in this stifling heat. Her lacy umbrella was rolling down the hill, and she still ogled at me, jaw slack. So I gritted my teeth, the armpits of my brown uniform drenched, and hit the gas.
Her delicate face stuck to my bumper as the rusty brown delivery truck blundered and growled down the neighborhood street. I was relieved when I finally turned the corner, and didn’t have to stare back at her glossy marble eyes in my rearview mirror.
I had reached my point of destination as a dashing, daring UPS man, which was, this time, a bright blue house with immaculate white shutters. The garden wasn’t particularly grand, but it wasn’t bare. There was a green plastic pot with a rather well-to-do harvest of cherry tomatoes, and a pair of hanging baskets that dripped with yellow pansies. The entire front porch reeked of lavender, which, as a bachelor, I had only known a la Air Wick Plug-Ins.
By the way, lavender smells –way- better in person; not from an electricity outlet.
The brown behemoth beast purred with a popping, bubbling cough as I left the motor running, a smallish yellow envelope clutched in my palm, still wet with the angst of my near hit-and-run. I hopped out of the driver’s seat, and fumbled my way up the cement path, boots scuffling over a forgotten pair of gardening gloves.
I scowled when I stopped in front of the glass and screen door. It wasn’t even worth it to try and force my fingers through my gnarled mess of hair, the same colour as my uniform. I looked like a perpetual waste of existence. But it was time to ring the doorbell, just like the countless houses of the former four hours.
I heard the chime through the door, and took a step back, listening intently for the inevitable approach of footsteps. I wonder softly, Why don’t I ever get any mail? These people don’t know how good they’ve got it.
I almost didn’t see who answered at first, because he was shorter than the level of my chin. It was a boy, maybe eleven, clad in the tightest pajama pants ever to grace Wal-mart shelves, and a black “Legend of Zelda” tee. A Wii-mote was clenched in his left fist, as he held the door open with his other hand.
Time for business.
“Could you sign off for this?” I ask, pushing the envelope at him atop the clunky electronic clipboard.
He stares at the parcel blankly, then back at me. “I’m not sixteen.”
I so did not have the patience. Nineteen year old men did not waste their days arguing with preteens. “I won’t tell if you don’t tell; you look sixteen to me.”
I couldn’t tell if he was aggravated or sleepy; his expressions were a little muddled, and unresponsive. “My sister can sign for it. She’s out walking the dog somewhere.”
I blinked, and swallowed my tongue. No, not the frilly lacy girl. I mean, lots of girls walk dogs. It’s summer.
Then, I heard a voice in the key of raspberry jelly waft from behind me, “Wyatt, is my package here?”
There was a charming jingle, as, low and behold, the same small black Corgi that had stared into my headlights on the hill trotted contently beneath my legs. She was panting, her thin pink tongue almost low enough to lap the cement of the porch. She blinked, ears pricked, and looked at me with brown eyes I had only seen on cows.
Death wish heavy in my mind, I turned to face the dog’s owner. The skirt, tracked with white lace back and front, was unmistakable; and her dark auburn spirals were perfectly imprinted in my mind, the way they had almost been between my tires. And there were those shoes again, white leather, laced up to the ankle with silky ribbon, a square one-inch chunk missing out of the back heel.
Silently, eyes fixated on the mini tiara in one of the two buns on her head, I handed her the package.
You’d have thought it was flaming, the way she screamed.
“OHMYGAWD! IT’SMYHEADRESS!” she tore it open, still spewing, “My Baby Headdress from Shinjuku!”
She dropped her collapsed parasol on the porch, and bolted into the house, her corgi quick to follow on her heels. Her poor brother was thrown back from the threshold, passively, of coarse, and the door was promptly slammed in my face.
I was left on the porch, signatureless, reeking of B.O., half a job done, with clumps of fluffy corgi hair on my pants leg.
Tight-Laced
It was all in a flash of streaking white and hot pink checkers, enveloped in a scream that outdid the rusty brakes that I almost didn’t slam fast enough. Her little bitty dog cowered, ears plastered flat as paper against her foxy head, its owner hyperventilating as she gripped her frilly white ankle.
Even through the grimy windshield, they were the wonkiest shoes I’d seen in my entire life. I couldn’t take them in fast enough, though, as my eyeballs went haywire over the mass of gingham and trim she had bundled herself under in this stifling heat. Her lacy umbrella was rolling down the hill, and she still ogled at me, jaw slack. So I gritted my teeth, the armpits of my brown uniform drenched, and hit the gas.
Her delicate face stuck to my bumper as the rusty brown delivery truck blundered and growled down the neighborhood street. I was relieved when I finally turned the corner, and didn’t have to stare back at her glossy marble eyes in my rearview mirror.
I had reached my point of destination as a dashing, daring UPS man, which was, this time, a bright blue house with immaculate white shutters. The garden wasn’t particularly grand, but it wasn’t bare. There was a green plastic pot with a rather well-to-do harvest of cherry tomatoes, and a pair of hanging baskets that dripped with yellow pansies. The entire front porch reeked of lavender, which, as a bachelor, I had only known a la Air Wick Plug-Ins.
By the way, lavender smells –way- better in person; not from an electricity outlet.
The brown behemoth beast purred with a popping, bubbling cough as I left the motor running, a smallish yellow envelope clutched in my palm, still wet with the angst of my near hit-and-run. I hopped out of the driver’s seat, and fumbled my way up the cement path, boots scuffling over a forgotten pair of gardening gloves.
I scowled when I stopped in front of the glass and screen door. It wasn’t even worth it to try and force my fingers through my gnarled mess of hair, the same colour as my uniform. I looked like a perpetual waste of existence. But it was time to ring the doorbell, just like the countless houses of the former four hours.
I heard the chime through the door, and took a step back, listening intently for the inevitable approach of footsteps. I wonder softly, Why don’t I ever get any mail? These people don’t know how good they’ve got it.
I almost didn’t see who answered at first, because he was shorter than the level of my chin. It was a boy, maybe eleven, clad in the tightest pajama pants ever to grace Wal-mart shelves, and a black “Legend of Zelda” tee. A Wii-mote was clenched in his left fist, as he held the door open with his other hand.
Time for business.
“Could you sign off for this?” I ask, pushing the envelope at him atop the clunky electronic clipboard.
He stares at the parcel blankly, then back at me. “I’m not sixteen.”
I so did not have the patience. Nineteen year old men did not waste their days arguing with preteens. “I won’t tell if you don’t tell; you look sixteen to me.”
I couldn’t tell if he was aggravated or sleepy; his expressions were a little muddled, and unresponsive. “My sister can sign for it. She’s out walking the dog somewhere.”
I blinked, and swallowed my tongue. No, not the frilly lacy girl. I mean, lots of girls walk dogs. It’s summer.
Then, I heard a voice in the key of raspberry jelly waft from behind me, “Wyatt, is my package here?”
There was a charming jingle, as, low and behold, the same small black Corgi that had stared into my headlights on the hill trotted contently beneath my legs. She was panting, her thin pink tongue almost low enough to lap the cement of the porch. She blinked, ears pricked, and looked at me with brown eyes I had only seen on cows.
Death wish heavy in my mind, I turned to face the dog’s owner. The skirt, tracked with white lace back and front, was unmistakable; and her dark auburn spirals were perfectly imprinted in my mind, the way they had almost been between my tires. And there were those shoes again, white leather, laced up to the ankle with silky ribbon, a square one-inch chunk missing out of the back heel.
Silently, eyes fixated on the mini tiara in one of the two buns on her head, I handed her the package.
You’d have thought it was flaming, the way she screamed.
“OHMYGAWD! IT’SMYHEADRESS!” she tore it open, still spewing, “My Baby Headdress from Shinjuku!”
She dropped her collapsed parasol on the porch, and bolted into the house, her corgi quick to follow on her heels. Her poor brother was thrown back from the threshold, passively, of coarse, and the door was promptly slammed in my face.
I was left on the porch, signatureless, reeking of B.O., half a job done, with clumps of fluffy corgi hair on my pants leg.