demonstrate something that would ever allow herself to fall into that seemingly stifled selection.
Upon arriving at Paradise, I guide us around back rather than inside knowing the best of part of the entire place is its outdoor patio area. Thankfully, there’s no wait, something I’ve learned how to time with admirable perfection if I’m allowed to say so. The hostess gets us seated on the deck immediately; however, I don’t rush my date along. I allow her to ooh and awe over the tropical getaway atmosphere they’ve cultivated with their abundance of various types of palm trees, exotic bird décor, and island hut-themed coverings for the deck. Mere seconds after we’re settled at our table that faces the water, the reason I wanted to come tonight in particular struts onto the sand, instrument in hand, voice crooning “Come Sail Away”.
Brooklyn immediately darts her stare his direction and questions, “Is that guy really doing a Styx cover on a ukulele?!”
I lightly laugh and lean back in my seat. “Yeah. That’s Sal Seashell.”
She tosses me a sarcastic expression causing me to chuckle even more.
“No joke. That’s what he calls himself.” The bite-sized performer who is at least a foot shorter than my 6’1, plops down on the barstool waiting for him behind a microphone. “Now, I’m not entirely sure if that’s like an ocean style stage name or maybe a nod to the old tongue twister-”
“Wasn’t that Sally who sold seashells?
“Whose name was actually Mary in real life, and it wasn’t shells she was selling so much as fossils she had been discovering. And not selling so much as being taken from her by the men of her time so they could receive the credit.”
Her eyes widen in what I imagine to be bewilderment.
“Told you,” I teasingly smirk. “Smarter than the Spicoli vibes I give off.”
Brooklyn’s bright beam reappears at the same time she slowly nods. “I like the Spicoli vibe as much as I like the Bill Nye The Beach guy one.”
This time we warmly laugh together only stopping when our waitress comes over to introduce herself and grab a drink order.
My hand kindly gestures Brooklyn’s direction. “I picked our poison last night. This one is all on you.”
“Do you have a really big drink we can share?”
“We have The Fish Tank, which has your more traditional ingredients of vodka, rum, and schnapps while The Tropical Island Fishbowl has Moscato, vodka, blue curacao, and pineapple juice. Both come with the usual garnishes and are served in a goldfish bowl. Of the two, I prefer The Fish Tank. Tastes better and less of a hangover the next morning.”
“Let’s go Fish Tank then.”
Tammi initially nods yet winces when she has to ask, “Can I just see your ID?” Her eyes cut me a glance. “Both of you actually.”
“Do we really look under twenty-one?” Brooklyn sasses during the dig into her handbag. “Or are you doing that thing where you do this as a way to be flattering to people you’ve labeled old in your mind to get a better tip?”
“Um…,” the bobbed hair brunette uncomfortably hums, “the first one?”
Kind of get the feeling she may not be smart enough to have thought of the latter.
I fish out my wallet to show her my ID in sync with Brooklyn’s offering. Tammi loudly gasps as she reads my date’s information, “You do not look anywhere near thirty-two!” She tosses her a giggle. “God, I hope I look that good in ten years!”
What’s meant to be flattery clearly irks Brooklyn.
Is she insecure about her age?
Out of the two of us, I’m the one who should probably be more uptight about it than I am. The one who should be cringing over the ticking clock. Panicking at the ends of the sand passing through the hourglass. I’ve never believed an age should dictate your fucking life. My family – particularly my father – disagrees with my philosophy, but what else is fucking new?
“Ohmygod, you’re almost forty!?” She squawks at me and throws a hand in the air my direction. “You don’t give off any creepy daddy vibes like at all!”
Unsure of how to receive the compliment, I simply shrug. “Thanks?”
She giggles as though what I said was somehow flirty prior to insisting, “Let me go put that drink in.”
The moment she disappears, Brooklyn grumps, “I don’t care for her.”
“Could it be because she ID checked us like they gave a high school cheerleader the job of a bouncer or perhaps it was the way she felt the