Orange Creamsickle

Disclaimer: The following story, characters, and plot belong to me and are my intellectual property. If you would like to use anything you see here, please ask me.

Author\'s Note: This is a repost from the read-only archive, but a fairly new story for me. I would love to know what you think.

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You know those plastic cups with orange sherbet and vanilla ice cream you used to get in grade school? She smells like they taste. I know this because today she asked to borrow my stapler, and leaned toward me when she used it. I almost touched her fingers when she handed it back, but got too nervous and didn’t.

When she first started coming into my department, borrowing supplies and using the computers, I noticed her smile. Before I knew it, I was noticing other things; the way her short hair curls around her ears when she goes too long between haircuts, the way her jeans hang low on her hips, the broadness of her shoulders on her thin frame. And there are other things about her, too. I love the way she looks away when you ask her a question, eyes to the side and down, lips curved in a nervous smile. I can tell, sometimes, when she is in a good mood, she’s bouncy and energetic and personality rolls off of her in waves. It’s subtle, and hard to catch. She’s so shy.

I saw her at a drag show a few weeks ago, I recognized her instantly. We were smashed together in the throng of people at the bar, waiting our turn to order. I smiled at her, said hi, told her she comes into my department. She looked at me questioningly; I should’ve known she wouldn’t recognize me. Then her eyes lit up and that smile spread across her face, and I felt my heart drop to my knees.

“Sure,” she said, leaning in closer so I could hear her over the hum of the people and the boom of the bass, “computers, right?” She was adorable as she pantomimed typing.

“Yeah,” I replied, smiling at her in turn. “Yeah, the computers.”

I knew her name, but politely accepted her introducing herself, shaking hands and pretending I wasn’t feeling nauseous from the butterflies in my stomach. I told her mine and she smiled at me again.

“We should talk more, next time I come in there. Get a coffee or something.” She said, and I nodded. She had a soul-patch drawn on her lower lip with brown eyeliner. I wanted to touch it, see if I could kiss her in the heat generated by all the bodies without actually smudging it.

“Do you know someone in the show?” she inquired, and I nodded again.

“Yeah, Ned.”

“Oh, Ned! Yeah, I just met her a few days ago, she’s great.” We moved together then, closer to the bar.

“Yeah, she’s a real sweetie.” I was beginning to feel ridiculous. I couldn’t think of anything to say, my mind was a blank.

When we got to the bar, I let her go first, place her orders. She didn’t look at me as she left.

Later, I mentioned her to Ned.

“Sure, Lindsay,” said Ned. “You know, she’s great, really nice. She’s too young to be here.”

“Too young? How young is she?” I asked, feigning mere interest.

“Eighteen, fake ID or something.”

“Oh, wow.” Again, I was feeling ridiculous.

I hadn’t seen her since the show, not until she came into the department again today. I spent the better part of the three weeks vacillating between wanting to go get coffee with her, and feeling lecherous for being so strongly attracted to someone almost a decade younger than me.

So, when she came in today, I was more shy than usual, and she was more verbose. Perhaps knowing I was accepting of drag, of homosexuality, of her identity, she felt more comfortable with me.

“Hey,” she said, more open than usual, big smile on her face. “How are you?” she asked, then added, “I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

“Rachel,” I said, and we shook hands again.

“Lindsay,” she stated and I nodded and smiled. That’s when she asked to borrow the stapler.

For the next twenty minutes, I ran the printers, making up copies and transparencies, and she collated paperwork next to me. She’s working on some big project. If I wasn’t touching something, I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands. Most of the time, I just watched her out of the corner of my eyes.

Her lips are pale pink, actually natural bubblegum pink, and I wondered briefly if her nipples were the same color. I wondered, too, if she would taste like that ice cream, taste like she smells.

She doesn’t focus on people, seems distracted most of the time. But I know it’s really that she’s more focused on her work than on socializing. I know because I’ve watched her work, and there is nothing flighty about it.

When she left, she smiled at me, leaned in and said \"thank you\", and \"see you later\".

After work, having a beer with my friend Nathan, I sighed and leaned my head on his shoulder.

“Why don’t you just go up and tell her you want to lick her from head to toe, see if she tastes like she smells?” he said.

I shook my head and rolled my eyes at him. “Because I can’t, Nathan. I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. You just walk up and say it, or whisper it in her ear, that might be better. Definitely sexier,” he added, and then sipped his beer, watching me over the rim.

“No, babe, it’s not the saying it that’s a problem. It’s that I can’t do it.”

“Why not?” he asked, truly mystified.

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe a little thing called a husband? I’m not allowed to have a girlfriend.”

“What,” he teased, “Jeff doesn’t want two women?”

“Jeff doesn’t like the idea of sharing.” I stated, then laid my cash down on the table.

Later, working on my laptop, Jeff sitting next to me on the sofa, I sighed.

“You know those plastic cups with orange sherbet and vanilla ice cream you used to get in grade school?” I asked and he nodded in response. “She smells like they taste.”

“Lindsay?” he inquired, looking at me over the top of his paper.

I nodded.

“Hmm,” he said, and went back to reading.