Message-ID: <39240asstr$1036926604@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: johndear@softhome.net (john) X-Original-Message-ID: Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit NNTP-Posting-Date: 31 Oct 2002 04:40:51 GMT X-MailScanner: PASSED (v1.2.6 23267 g9V4eq0L034916 mailbox1.ucsd.edu) X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 30 Oct 2002 20:40:51 -0800 Subject: {ASSM} {Song Fest, Mood} Joss {johndear} (rom) Date: Sun, 10 Nov 2002 06:10:04 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, newsman Author: johndear Title: Joss Summary: To the tune of an old Eagles ballad, a truck driver courts a hostess in a remote restaurant. Keywords: rom Length: 1,691 words Copyright: c. 2002 Joss: A Trucker's Song by John He climbed down off the running board into the slush that lined the shoulder of the road. He stretched. He felt the comfort of the ground beneath his boots, the peaceful starlit night ease through his soul. A dumpy little restaurant too north to be important. He'd pushed all day for this. Rolled dice a dozen times in endless, blinding snow with just a glimpse of spruce to hint the margin of a ditch. He'd pushed the rig, twenty over when he could, pushed himself by skipping lunch, then almost lost control at dusk along a guard-railed precipice. For her. For ninety minutes here. Relaxed. With her. "The Jade Eagl_" winked a wounded advertisement from its aeyrie on the roof. He stumbled through the parking lot and stomped the crimson welcome mat. No trucker's stop. This late, the place was empty. It had no business being there, he thought; no way it paid the rent. First time he'd stopped, he'd had no choice. Joss. It could've been most anything. "Joss" he figured. "Luck," or "fate" or "destiny," he thought it meant from books he'd read about the East. Her. She'd intercepted him before he took his jacket off with, "You want beer?" What kinda rush was that? He'd asked if they had Scotch. "I check," she said. She didn't even know? What kinda place was this? He'd almost left, but she was back and begged her pardon, "John Walk. No good?" "Red? Black? Is it Black?"" "It gold. Sorry. Not good?" He'd mumbled, "Good, for sure." She'd, with her eyes, becalmed him. She'd sparkled, like the silver hoops against her soft brown neck. "A double." He'd splayed two fingers like she might be deaf. "In one glass, please. No ice," as if she might be dull. He'd lost an hour that evening chatting up the hostess. Just listening to her voice. He'd stopped again the next time through. A dozen times. He'd named her Joss in conversations he'd invented as he drove. "Take ice," she'd said his second trip, in August. "Ice better." "No, thanks." He fell in love. "You eat buffet? Good." "How 'bout a menu." "No menu. Sorry. Buffet only. I bring ice." Joss always stopped beside his chair to see that things were right. "You here April. No eat egg roll that time either? No like? You too skinny?" She'd absorbed into his blood like booze. He'd tried to keep a balance. Don't jeopardize your family: twenty years of marriage, kids, a house. And so he'd fought it. Knew the wiles of women. Knew the tangled web of Joss. "You have dessert? You stay in town tonight?" Her chocolate eyes cut through him. Her hair, cropped short atop her slender neck. Her jasmine scent. He was too old for her, too tall, too coarse for skin like porcelain. His callused hands might bruise the peach-sized breasts that swayed beneath her sweater. His touch might mar the fragile thighs that fairly curved beneath her skirt. "Neat," he'd said. "No ice; no water," he explained. "Some things are best just as they are." Like you, he didn't say at all. "Not good that way," she'd argued. "You try. I get." Then two weeks later, as he'd walked inside the door again she'd nearly shouted, "You back!" and brought him Scotch with ice before he'd even found a table. "Try egg roll. Good today. Rest now. Rong day?" Why would she remember? He hadn't made a pass. The light that danced across her face when he'd walked in, belonged to him and no one else he'd seen her with. He'd stopped more frequently that fall and winter. Always she was there, always she remembered, always brought the drink without him asking. Added cautions when she'd learned he drove big transport trucks. "You okay, for sure? You drive. Not drink too much." Once, he watched her as she spoke her language with an elder at the cash. Her father? He heard her switch to English. Did she? "He nice." She'd glanced in his direction. Giggled. Maybe. Last trip, he'd almost made a move, nearly joined the ranks of customers who no doubt hit on her each day. He'd argued with the trees since Lake Louise about fidelity; he'd thought he'd got it right. He'd said he'd ask her name, ask her when her shift was over. Did she have a fella? Did she care he had a wife? "You late. Not too much drink." She'd winked at him with more than just her eyes. "You home far?" Don't remind me. "Calgary." "Far. Motel edge town? Good sreep. Rong drive?" "Long. Yes." Book the room and come right back and offer her a key. He'd watched her feet in clogs that shuffled back and forth in little tasks that seemed to have no purpose but to show the outline of a calf below the long coarse dress that sheathed her. "No good pork. Chicken," she'd confided. "Family you? In Cargary?" "Yes. A wife. The boys are grown and gone. A girl, twelve." He'd sipped the Scotch; known, suddenly, he couldn't do it. This night there was no doubt. He needed Joss. Tonight the cold had come in earnest, turning sleet to ice. There were a billion stars on which to wish. This town was far enough to go. She brought his drink and placed it on the table. "Colder out?" "Winter, eh," he laughed uneasily. "Drive big truck how many years?" Come sit. Come let me buy you one for all the times I've thought of you and smiled. "Ten years, I guess. Before that, I taught. Taught school." "Teacher, you?" she shrieked. "Why quit?" "Too hard, I guess. I needed something... less complex." She smiled. Sit down. Whisper near my ear, my hand on yours, our knees just brushing. "Like truck better?" "Yes." He smiled. "I'm happy." Then he started to undress her. Where? A cheap motel. The sleeper in his rig. Perhaps, her place. It didn't really matter where. He knew he'd take her clothes off soon. He took a gulp of Scotch and pushed his empty plate away and finally made his move. "You like it here?" "Work make very happy." "You're good. You have a way with people. You always cheer me up." He'd ask her name. She wouldn't let him down. She blushed. He'd never seen her blush before. "It shows... how you like people." She blushed again. He smiled. At how she'd look without the blouse. Standing in a dimness, illumined by the glow of that sweet blush. Shadowed by the closeness of his body. "How late d' you work?" His pulse beat faster. "When finish dishes." Incredulous, "You have do the dishes, too?" She laughed a summer rain. The kind that puddled in the grass and made the kids at recess lose their shoes and wade. "No wash dishes. Twi wash. More Scotch? Almost crose now." "Sure. I've driven far enough today. Another double." The zipper on the left side her skirt was cheap and lay exposed. Before she moved to get the Scotch he reached and caught it, pulled and watched it loosen, saw her step out of the heap of quilted satin, show lace bikini panties as she went to get the drink. The fantasy engorged along his thigh. Tonight. Not just your lover, I want to know each thing you do and think and feel. I want to be a friend. She set it on the table. "Not drive. Stay here tonight." "I'm fine." "Motel up road." "I might. It's nice?" It doesn't matter just as long as you're there too. "Expensive." "If it costs too much, I'll use the sleeper." We, he mused. "Sreeper?" "Behind the cab, there's like a bedroom. Double bed. It's nice. Warm and comfy." Ask to see. I'll give a tour. Let my fingers touch your shoulders as I lightly kiss your neck. One question more. Okay? "Cab? In big truck." "Behind the seats up front. It's all closed off. Real private like." "Nice. You have bedroom always." "Sometimes it's lonely." Take the cue. "Close now. Take time with Scotch. No rush." He grinned and teased her, "The dishes must be nearly done." Timed perfectly, he saw the kitchen help appear. An older woman, slump-shouldered, plain, an apron loose around her neck now stood beside the swinging doors. Her eyes cast downward made her smaller, thinner. Invisible, he thought. Her swollen hands she rested, palms up, upon the counter like she'd put them there for someone else to scrape and stack and dump into a rubber bin. Quit time, he thought. Now Joss. "Enjoy drink, Mister." She crossed toward the woman and whispered in her cheek. Tell her that you won't be home tonight, he thought. Tell her that you have a friend. Say you're horny, eh? He heard the older woman giggle. He nice man. You tell her that. He watched her. Saw Joss lift limp, red hands in hers, not like a plate or saucer, but with a tenderness, the way he planned to cup her breasts before he kissed them. Joss used a lotion, worked slow, strong circles through each muscle, past the joints, between each slender carpal. Unhurried, unashamed of who might see, slowly Joss raised one damp palm against her cheek and then against her lips. Then smiled, then lifted, like it was a flower, a lock of sweat drenched hair and tucked it over Twi's left ear. A sister? From different fathers if she was. Little he could see familiar in the two. Patience. Maybe she would only get her coat and hover by his table waiting for the ice to lose its amber tinge, then lead him to the sleeper or her room. He'd ask her name, for sure. Joss moved toward his table. Stopped. "You back soon. No drive tonight. Okay?" She stepped beside her worker, smiled the smile he knew was his alone. Leaned closer, kissed her lightly on the lips. The older woman glowed, seemed suddenly much younger, then kissed Joss back and giggled like a child before they left. Left him standing, already standing, on the ground. =============================================================== Please drop a note if you have a comment you could share with me. I'm John. johndear@softhome.net -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+