Hobo Jungle
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“You know what, sweetie? Nobody can really understand the words of a love song, not the real meaning, unless ya feel that same way too. Then it’s so amazing.” She started singing along with the music. “’You know it's you, babe. Whenever I get weary and I've had enough, feel like giving up, you know it's you, babe, giving me the courage and the strength I need, please believe that it's true. Babe, I love you.’” She kissed him. He jumped off the stool. “Kelly, what is it?”
“Be right back.”
“You okay?”
He kissed her and she beamed.
When he got back from the bathroom, she was dancing to the Village People doing “Y.M.C.A.” He wondered why anyone liked that song, but everyone seemed to love it, even the fishermen thought it was funny. He liked craggy blues, or that Motown stuff. No one played that around here. When he got to his stool she starting dancing close, rubbing her *** against his groin. He felt himself thicken and sat down to try to hide it. She hopped up beside him, kissed him again, dropped her hand in his lap. “Still love me?” she said. He nodded. “You wanna go for a walk? You got over an hour.” She rubbed him through his pants.
“Later.” He saw the reflex of disappointment, and she spun and shot off to play the juke again. He wondered what she felt, what was really going on inside her. He wanted to ask her but never seemed to manage it. Maybe he’d try after work tonight if she wasn’t too drunk. Whiskey or no whiskey, she could really put away the draft beer, though she claimed it filled her up, bloated her. Now that she’d stopped dancing professionally, maybe she’d get fat? But if anything, she’d been losing weight lately, which made no sense. Whatever size she was, he didn’t really care. She had the most loving spirit he’d ever know. It overwhelmed him, the pure momentum of it, as if nothing could ever stop it. If only he didn’t cringe at half the stuff she did and said. If only he loved her.
“Be right back.”
“You okay?”
He kissed her and she beamed.
When he got back from the bathroom, she was dancing to the Village People doing “Y.M.C.A.” He wondered why anyone liked that song, but everyone seemed to love it, even the fishermen thought it was funny. He liked craggy blues, or that Motown stuff. No one played that around here. When he got to his stool she starting dancing close, rubbing her *** against his groin. He felt himself thicken and sat down to try to hide it. She hopped up beside him, kissed him again, dropped her hand in his lap. “Still love me?” she said. He nodded. “You wanna go for a walk? You got over an hour.” She rubbed him through his pants.
“Later.” He saw the reflex of disappointment, and she spun and shot off to play the juke again. He wondered what she felt, what was really going on inside her. He wanted to ask her but never seemed to manage it. Maybe he’d try after work tonight if she wasn’t too drunk. Whiskey or no whiskey, she could really put away the draft beer, though she claimed it filled her up, bloated her. Now that she’d stopped dancing professionally, maybe she’d get fat? But if anything, she’d been losing weight lately, which made no sense. Whatever size she was, he didn’t really care. She had the most loving spirit he’d ever know. It overwhelmed him, the pure momentum of it, as if nothing could ever stop it. If only he didn’t cringe at half the stuff she did and said. If only he loved her.
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