The Pier

It was another windy, storm-torn day that the girl saw Pat again. She had brought Miles and another younger brother Luke to lunch at the dinky fish and chips tucked on one side of the pier. It was when Luke finally settled down and started streaking crayons over his coloring book and when Miles sat noiselessly on his high chair watching Finding Nemo from the girl’s phone that the bell attached to the dull and faded white-washed door rang as three boys rowdily entered the cramped seafood shack.

“And I was like, ‘No, that’s a bass string!’ The dude totally needs his eyes checked, man,” another, lighter brunette claimed, throwing his hands in the air and hitting them against his thighs with a loud smack. Pat and his other friend from yesterday – Garrison or something – lightly chuckled in agreement.

The noise distracted Miles from his favorite movie (he always had a short attention span anyway), and as soon as he recognized the strange boy with girly hair, he pointed one of his stubby fingers and let out a scream of realization.

While the girl quickly tried to get Miles’s attention back to her phone’s screen, Pat nudged his new friend, whispered something to him, and apprehensively walked up to the girl’s table. He bent down at his knees and quietly cooed at Miles, touching random spots of the sheet of tiny freckles on his face. Miles oooed and ahhed at the strange boy and reached a soft hand to pat his cheek.

“Pah.”

“Yeah, Pat. That’s right, little buddy.” He tapped his nose and Miles let out a tiny squeal. The unseemly blisters still peeked out from the bottom of his hand. Some had hardened into dead, colorless patches; others looked fresh and bright red, dotting the creases of his lanky fingers. The girl knew any wishful attempt to get Miles’s attention back to the movie was futile, so she locked her phone and set it on the table next to her perspiring glass of soda.

“Pat. Hey.”

Pat shot his eyes from Miles and peered over the toddler’s tuft of fuzzy caramel hair at the girl. The second his eyes met hers, he smiled wide and shot up from his crouched position.

“Hey! Uh, I…” He rubbed the back of his neck and furrowed his eyebrows, looking to his side as he rumpled up his hair hanging over his shoulders. “I never got your name.”

“Jane.”

“Jane.” He smiled again, sticking out a blistered hand over the Miles’s empty high chair food tray. “It fits you perfectly.”

Jane hesitantly eyed his hand. Not in disgust – she was smart enough to know what a blister looked like – but out of curiosity. There were only a handful of things someone his age could do that gave them blisters.

Pat furrowed his eyebrows in confusion at the sight of Jane’s hesitance. “It’s my hand, huh? Heh.” He retreated it back into the pocket of his loosely fitted drain pipes and bit his lip. “Kind of disgusting, isn’t it?” He gave a dry chuckle and ruffled Miles’ hair with his other hand.

Jane barely uttered a syllable before stopping herself to think of the best way to rephrase her question without sounding offended or mean. “Why do you have blisters?”

Pat undecidedly opened his mouth to speak, but his attention was quickly intercepted by one of his friends.

“Pat! Let’s go! The food’s gonna get cold if you don’t get your ass out here,” the taller, darker brunette yelled, holding the peeling door open with one hand and a cardboard tray of drinks in another.

“I’ve gotta bounce. See you later, Jane?” And he was jogging out the door before she could respond.

“Sure.”