Page 135 of Banter & Blushes #1

W inston decides it’s morning by climbing onto my chest like he’s auditioning for a Hollywood role prior to the Me Too movement. I squint one eye open. He stares back like I’ve personally offended him by not already being vertical and wearing shoes.

“Do you know what time it is?” I groan, voice muffled by the pillow I’m trying to re-enter.

Winston sneezes once, hops off the bed, and promptly knocks over the laundry basket with the grace of a drunk raccoon. Which is pug-speak for yes, and I’m still choosing violence.

I get up.

My apartment is small, but it makes up for it by being completely allergic to straight lines.

The ceiling slopes dramatically, like it's sighing. The floor creaks in full sentences, which feels oddly comforting, like the apartment is trying to talk me out of leaving. My kitchen stares at me like it knows I’ve forgotten to empty the dishwasher again. Probably because I have.

I've lived here for three years, and it still feels like a place I'm borrowing. Which, I guess makes sense since it is an apartment, but still. Shouldn’t I have made it a home by now?

Ugh. It’s too early to be this deep in my head.

I feed Winston his breakfast, which he inhales with the desperation of someone who thinks every meal might be his last. Then I slip into sneakers and throw on a graphic T-shirt that smells faintly of citrus and old popcorn.

Probably because the graphic is a picture of popcorn, and not from my late night movie binging.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Outside, the morning is warm and bright in that but tery way that only happens near the coast. A pair of gulls bicker on the roof across the alley. Winston trots beside me like he owns the block. Which, in fairness, he might. Everyone knows him. Most of them know me as “Winston’s person.”

I grab his leash from the hook by the door, the one labeled Master of Mayhem in glittery vinyl letters I may or may not have made during a brief but passionate affair with a label maker.

Winston spins in excited circles while I try to clip it onto his harness, which is a whole event since he seems to believe that excessive movement is part of the process. Eventually, I win.

Barely.

The beach town is already stretching its arms. Boardwalk shops are dragging out sandwich boards with messages like Life’s better in flip-flops and Free smells with every coffee .

The bakery two doors down is piping out the scent of cinnamon rolls like it’s trying to summon a crowd.

It’s working. A couple with matching sun hats is already hovering by the window, trying to decide if they’re hungry or just easily influenced.

“Morning, Becky!” calls Mrs. Rojo from her porch swing. She’s knitting something aggressively purple and sipping from a mug that says Procrastiknit .

“Morning,” I say, giving Winston a little tug before he decides to investigate her flowerbeds again. “He’s not looking for trouble, I promise. Just lightly flirting with it.”

“Uh huh,” she says.

I wave and keep walking, past the bookstore with the crooked sign and the surf shop.

The ocean peeks between buildings like it’s playing hide-and-seek. I let Winston lead us toward the dunes, where the sand softens and the breeze picks up. He stops to sniff a patch of grass like it holds the answers to life. I let him. Some mornings don’t need to be efficient.

By the time we loop back toward my place, the town is fully awake.

A few kids zoom by on bikes. Someone’s tuning a guitar near the café.

I catch my reflection in the bakery window—messy hair, coffee-deprived eyes, T-shirt that should’ve retired last season—and shrug. It's familiar, this version of me.

Comfortable, even.

But sometimes, I wonder what it would feel like to look in the mirror and see something... more.

Winston pauses dramatically at the corner, nose in the wind like he's sensing danger or pie. I can't help but laugh. He's so certain, so in-the-moment. Sometimes I wish I could be like him—just sniff the breeze and march forward without overthinking everything.

Then he sneezes twice and sneezes again for good measure.

I crouch to scoop him up, pressing my face into his fur. “You, sir, are the world’s smallest emotional support loaf.”

He licks my chin.

Back upstairs, I toss my keys into the ceramic bowl that holds keys, paper clips, and an alarming number of junk mail envelopes th at I’m determined one day to throw away.

I decide to start acting like a human again, and peel off my popcorn shirt and sneakers.

I hop into the shower, where the water pressure is questionable and the shampoo smells like mangoes, because who can regret mangoes?

I sing to Winston through the cracked door, mostly to keep him from chewing on my sandals, and partly because he’s my most loyal audience.

After a quick towel-dry that leaves my hair in an accidental wave pattern I will later call intentional, I throw on denim shorts and a tank top with a seagull wearing sunglasses on the front.

It’s the kind of outfit that says, I take my job seriously, but only up to the point where dress codes exist .

I swipe on some lip balm, tuck a pencil behind my ear for no actual reason, and grab a piece of toast I won’t finish on my way out the door.

Winston watches me go from his throne on by the window, his eyes squinty and judgmental in that way only pugs and disappointed aunts can manage. He knows I’m leaving him behind today, and his separation anxiety is less “anxiety” and more “how dare you”. I blow him a kiss, which he does not return.

By the time I reach The Clever Lime, the air smells like sea salt and sunscreen and whatever questionable choices were made at breakfast. I unlock the side door, flick on the lights, and let the familiar creak of the bar stools settle into my bones.

Everything’s just where it should be. Slightly crooked, a little sandy, and perfect in its own way.

I’m halfway through lifting the chairs down from the bar when the back door swings open and Clara breezes in, carrying an iced coffee the size of a toddler.

“Hey,” she chirps, sunglasses still on even though we’re indoors. “You look like someone who showered and then immediately lost a fight with humidity.”

“A ha… ha,” I mock-chuckle. I set down the chair I’m holding and blink at her. “I’ll take that as a compliment, because I’m choosing peace today.”

She snorts and sets her drink on the bar. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Clara is wearing one of her effortlessly cute tank tops and her hair is up in a bun that manages to look like she didn’t try at all, which means she definitely tried. She hops behind the bar and starts fiddling with the espresso machine even though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t broken.

“Anything exciting happen this morning?” she asks.

“Winston pooped in front of the artisan soap shop again,” I say, checking the lemons to see which ones are still living their best citrus life. “I’m not sure if it’s a statement or a coincidence at this point.”

Clara nods thoughtfully, like this is important intelligence. “Bold move. That lavender and eucalyptus bar gave me a rash once.”

“Winston knows things,” I say, like I’m not totally joking.

She laughs and taps the espresso machine. “This place better appreciate the fact that we show up before noon with functioning limbs and sparkling personalities.”

I give her a look. “Define sparkling. ”

“Caffeinated,” she replies, taking a victorious sip.

The bell above the door jingles with enthusiasm, and just like that, the day begins.

I don’t look up right away. I’m mid-battle with the citrus bin and there’s a lime that has taken it upon itself to leap from the colander and roll across the bar like it’s auditioning for a spy movie.

I snatch it before it hits the floor. Small wins.

“Welcome to The Clever Lime,” I call over my shoulder, placing the lime back in the bowl with a warning glance. “We’re open, but the blender hasn’t had its coffee yet. If it was a person, it’d be a night owl.”

No response. Just the sound of footsteps across the worn wooden floor. Calm. Not the flip-flop shuffle of a beach-goer, not the sandy stomp of a family in search of fish tacos. This is more deliberate.

I glance up.

The guy who just walked in is tall, with a ball cap pulled low, sunglasses still on and a beard just scruffy enough to make him look like he either overslept or is about to start a sea shanty.

Something about him feels out of place. Deliberate. Like he's here for a reason, and I'm not sure I want to know what it is.

He sits at the end of the bar without saying a word, and for a moment, it's like the whole room shifts to make space for him.