Mike-Mike was sharp for a sixth-grader.

He knew to the penny what a Baby Ruth sold for at the Master Mart across from the school, figured how he could still scrape a decent profit by getting the candy in bulk from the Cash-and-Carry where his old man bought supplies for his restaurant.

“Just a businessman doing a perfectly legal side hustle.”

Kids would stop by his locker and he’d open it up like a salesman, display his wares.

M&Ms, Lifesavers, Hershey…all the name brands.

In high school, he moved into a riskier trade.

“More money means less legal,” he said.

 

Friday Fictioneers

I hear her in the bathroom, so I flip the sheets back and walk to the door.

I tap.

“Come in,” she says.

It’s steamy. She’s wrapped the generous hotel towel around her torso.

I admire the ripple of muscles in her smooth shoulder as she leans toward the mirror with the lipstick, the amazing whiteness of her teeth.

“Wow.”

“You like?” she says, turning.

“Stunning,” I say. “Even with the towel.”

“Dirty boy,” she says.

“Do you have to go?”

“I need to get this over with.”

“And you want to look good.”

She kisses me. “Yes I do.”

 

Friday Fictioneers

“Half the worst is that it wasn’t even that bad a storm.”

Squires leans on his oars and lets the skiff drift past the jetty.

“Look at the fuckin’ place. Bloody shambles.”

“Oh, I’ve seen worse,” says Skip. “The sea is a cruel mistress, after all.”

“You want I should put in? Stretch the legs a bit?”

“Aye, that’d be fine.”

Squires rows them to a half-submerged slip and ships the oars.  He steps neatly onto the dock and makes the bowline fast to a bollard.

Skip heaves himself out and climbs up after, the seawater splashing his trouser cuffs.

 

Friday Fictioneers

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