Good Morning

 “Gotta say, I wouldn’t have thought we would end up in the same bunk. ‘Tis most fortuitous.” Brett put extra emphasis on the ‘fortuitous’.

  “‘Tis a turn of fate found to be most timely and effervescently pleasing.” Lindsay agreed and smiled. Her high-waisted jeans stretched as she walked down the length of the bunk building. “I mean, it’s not even bunks, though. I know both of us have pretty wealthy parents, but they could have sent us to a camp that wasn’t so nice that everyone has their own neat little bed in a gigantic ‘bunk’ building.” She did air quotes as she said bunk. She wore a short-sleeved green floral shirt with blue flowers, tucked into her pants. Her single brown braid went halfway down her back. This bunk building alone had a hundred beds, each made and with their own adjustable lamp. Moonlight came in through the windows.

  Brett chuckled, his thumbs sticking out of the pockets of his black jeans. “Hell you mean, Lindor? You wanna go to a camp that’s less nice?” His brown leather jacket looked shiny under the bright lights above them. He rolled back a little on the heels of his Chelsea boots. His hair was short, and a darker brown than hers. He sighed; they were the first two to get back to the bunkhouse after a long day of kayaking, hiking and s’mores. And he had never liked s’mores.

  “Well, not some peasant camp,” she said sarcastically, and gestured exuberantly at all the beds around them. “But not all this! It’s just too much. It’s not even a camp at this point, it’s a resort.” she paused and crossed her arms, pretending to be cross with him. “And my name’s not Lindor. I’m not a chocolate.” Her chin was pointed, her cheeks full despite her slenderness, but not quite plump. Her eyes were big, contrasting with her five-foot-and-a-half-inch height. She was 16. Her backpack swung on her back, being too large for her. As if she’d ever admit that.

  He stepped past her and patted her on the head. “You’ve been cute little Lindor since the day we met. Sweet as one, to.” They had been each other’s best friend for three years now; he was 17. He hadn’t had that many friends before he’d met her, but after becoming friends with her, he’d gained a lot more. A few of their shared friends were also in this same camp. A few other early go-inners entered and went to the opposite end of the bunkhouse, chatting. The rest were still outside by the fires with their hot dogs and s’mores, despite the hour.

  “I ain’t little! Little is five feet. I’m over five feet.” she huffed, and only seemed littler and cuter.

  He stepped close to her, put his hand on top of her head, and brought it to his chest. He was 5’11. He grinned down at her.

  Refusing to look up and meet his eyes, she fake-punched him in the gut. “No fair. You’re a giant. Being a giant doesn't count.”

  He chuckled. “Fee-fi-fo-fum, little lady. Now, it would be a most prudent time to excurse thyself towards a bed. Or, if the beds are too nice, you can always sleep on the floor.” he plopped his butt onto the nearest bed in sight, somewhere near the dead center of the rows of beds, and dropped his backpack next to it. Normally she would have taken a bed next to his and chatted with him for longer, but she had to keep up her faux-indignation and being called little. Turning so he wouldn’t see her smiling, she walked down a few rows and dropped her tired body onto the nearest bed. He rubbed the stubble all over his face-he had forgotten his shaver.

  She wasn’t far enough, though, to not hear him jump into a silly tune on his harmonica. From what she could remember, this one was about some guy whose dog died. She fought to stop herself from laughing. In desperation, she gestured toward the campers that were now entering the bunkhouse in greater numbers. “People are going to be going to sleep here! Quit thine stupid harmonica!” she giggled, lying down with her chin on a fold in the blanket, looking at him.

  “Going to sleep. They ain’t asleep yet.” he jumped back into his harmonica song, but stopped in a few seconds after noticing Stephen walking down the lane of beds toward him. Brett put his harmonica away, stood up and hugged Stephen, who returned the gesture. “Worm-eater, good to see you again, man.” Stephen was 5’8 and even more built than Brett, and almost as heavy.

  “Likewise, mon frere. And you ain’t never gonna let me live that down, are you? It was fourth grade, God damn it.” Stephen chuckled and turned to Lindsay. “You always commando crawl and spy on people like that, Lindor?” Stephen had a square face, and let his goatee-and-then-some and sideburns, seventeen years in the making, grow free. He wore a jeans jacket and black joggers.

  “It isn’t a commando crawl. I’m just lying down. And, oh no, he’s got you calling me Lindor too now, hasn’t he?” Lindsay groaned and smiled. Brett shrugged sheepishly. Stephen walked past him and dropped his own backpack at the foot of the bed just ahead of Brett’s bed. By now the bunkhouse was beginning to become seriously populated with campers who had also grown tired of s’moresing. Abruptly the lights far overhead shut off, and the only lights came from the few lamps that were turned on. “G’night, Brett. G’night, Lind-” Stephen paused, deciding to go with her real name. “say.”

  “G’night.” Brett said, kicking off his shoes, taking off his jacket and lying down.

  “G’night.” Lindsay said, and the last thing Brett saw before he fell asleep was her cocooning herself in her blanket and rolling over. Not a bad thing to end the night on…

* * *

  “Hey.” Brett snapped awake, not realizing that he had been snoring. Or drooling. In his drowsy haze, he didn’t register who it was until he felt his blanket lift up, and something about five feet and half an inch long climb under it and put her head on his shoulder. He snapped to full alertness as she put her arm across his body, resting her hand on his left shoulder. He could feel her chest on his right arm. She snuggled in closer. He looked down into her big eyes.

  “Lindor, what are you doing?” he trailed off as she put her finger to his lips. He noticed then how soft her hands were. He had made her blush many times before, and now it was his turn.

  She giggled. “You’re warm. My bed isn’t.” forget warm, he felt near sweating at the moment. Before he noticed what his hand was doing, it was on her hip. She arched her back in surprise, giggled again, and sighed. She drew her hand along his chest.

  He realized where his hand was. “Sorry…” he said quickly. He was about to take it off before she put her little hand on top of his, holding it there.

“No, don’t move. I like your hand there.” she rolled so that she was now on top of him, looking down at his face. At his lips. He saw that she was wearing a much too big Megadeth t-shirt that he had given her as a joke. He put his other hand on her other hip, now feeling as awake as he’d ever been. Slowly he moved one of his hands up her curved back, resting it finally on her soft shoulder.

“So I’m warm, huh?” now that he was awake, and over the shock, some of his wit was beginning to return to him. He smiled up at her.

  “I’m not cold any more.” she brushed her fingers over the whiskers on his cheeks. He took his hand off her shoulder and placed it on her cheek, surprised by how soft it was. His fingers brushed the back of her neck, behind her braid. She placed one hand on his forearm. 

  “I wasn’t cold, but I’m sure as hell not now. For a girl who was just freezing, you’re pretty warm yourself.” he said, and squeezed her hip. She sighed, and with a final giggle, broke through her hesitation, closed her eyes, and leaned her face down toward his face.

* * *

  Brett snapped awake, sitting up quickly with a gasp. He had been dreaming. He looked down and realized that he had fallen asleep in his clothes, which were now sweaty. He looked around, and after making sure that he hadn’t woken anyone else up, he crept out of bed and walked out of the bunkhouse. The sky was becoming blue as the tippy top of the sun was just beginning to rise over the trees on the horizon, and the grassy ground was damp with dew. A few hundred feet from the bunkhouse was a ledge that overlooked the man-made lake that was the camp’s main swimming area. He went over and sat with his legs dangling just over the edge.

  He had read a little bit of Jung a while back, but the Jungian interpretation of that dream was beyond his mental reach. That, or he just thought she was beautiful, but no, definitely not that. What the hell kind of dream did he just have?

  He heard the soft steps of feet on the damp grass behind him, and all of a sudden a pair of slender legs were dangling next to his own. “It’s 5:32.” Lindsay said. Looking at her, he saw that she actually was wearing the shirt he had given her, as well as her jeans. She wiggled her bare toes in the crisp air. The silence dragged on for several seconds; he felt like an impostor, sitting here next to her, after having the dream he just had. He looked back toward the scenic view of nature in front of him.

  She languidly leaned her head on his shoulder, her braid falling in front of her shoulder that was up against his arm and into her lap, and all those feelings vanished. “Good morning.” she said.