Ginger Fox Part 2

I walk with slow, deliberate steps, savoring the luxury of having a moment just for myself. Only one certainty fills my heart: nothing belongs to us more than our free souls. I smile, pull out my earbuds from my bag, and place my flats inside. I walk like a little girl, barefoot, adjusting the earbuds before hitting play on my playlist. My fingers tighten around the phone, and I close my eyes, recalling the first time I heard the song that starts playing. "Last Kiss" by Pearl Jam was the soundtrack to a romantic dance between Tom and me at our junior high prom. Tom looked so handsome in a blue suit, his eyes sparkling and his smile captivating, when he pulled me onto the dance floor. The side of my face rested against his chest, and in those seconds in his arms, I envisioned my entire life with him: sitting on a porch, both of us old, with our children grown, still feeling a love as strong as when it began. Perhaps if I had paid more attention to the lyrics, I would have realized that he wouldn’t be a part of my life forever.
My eyes open, and I slide my fingers across the phone, lighting up the screen. The smiling couple on the lock screen is gone, each having taken different paths, made mistakes, and made choices that can’t be undone. I slowly swipe my thumb across the cold screen, looking at the photo one last time before wiping away the tear that falls onto the phone, a final goodbye to the smiling couple. I take a deep breath, as if trying to draw in all the oxygen I can, while I delete the photo from my gallery, along with the others—scarce as they are, just like the affection Tom and I once shared during our time together. I loved Tom to the sound of this melody, and now I say goodbye to him while listening to "Last Kiss" once more.
"Breathe deep again..." I whisper, raising my fingers to dry my damp cheeks. "Now figure out where you want to fly, Ginger!"
I lower my sunglasses from my hair, setting them on my face, and turn my body to cross the street, no longer allowing myself to cry, just breathing deeply, as many times as necessary.



***



"Thank you very much," I say as I take my change from the lady at the ice cream shop. I quickly toss the coins into my purse so I can grab my strawberry ice cream cone. I smile at the vendor and exit the store.
Enjoying the creamy treat, I lick the side of the cone, catching a drop of strawberry syrup before it drips onto my hand. I glance distractedly at the busy street lined with beachfront shops and restaurants. When the light turns green, I cross the street and continue strolling along the beachside boardwalk. I still have some time to kill since it's only 10:15 in the morning. I raise the ice cream, twirling it slowly as I lick it leisurely. A couple chatting at a kiosk ahead catches my attention, and I recognize Mr. Roy, which makes me slow my pace. Jonathan is standing with his back to me, looking at a blonde woman with European features. She is stunning—almost like a porcelain doll. The faint lines beneath her eyes are the only indication that she’s older. I feel uneasy, not because I see him on what appears to be a date, but because of the way she raises her hand, holding his between hers. It causes a discomfort deep within me. He makes no move to pull away from her touch; he just keeps his eyes on her pale face, framed by long, false lashes. She is elegant—extremely elegant! Her hair, without a single strand out of place, frames a small face with full lips and expressive brown eyes.
I start hyperventilating, not just because of the heat and the fact that I'm wearing a long-sleeve shirt and jeans. My sudden, agonizing warmth stems from the scene unfolding before me, even though I have no valid reason to feel this way. I turn anxiously, trying to leave before he notices me, but I don't even manage to lift my foot when the ice cream cone is crushed in my hand, smearing against a rock-solid chest that could easily pass for a tank. The stern-looking man, with a square face, glares at me, glancing down at his black shirt now adorned with a massive pink, creamy stain. Pink splatters spread across his leather jacket. His fingers rise to his face, removing his dark-lensed, square-framed sunglasses, and I see his pupils darkening as his jaw clenches.
"Oh my God! I'm so sorry," I stammer nervously, feeling like a mosquito next to him. I try to pull what's left of the cone away without making the mess on his shirt worse, but only succeed in making things worse when the rest of the ice cream falls onto his military boots.
"Dermo!" His gruff voice comes out low, like a growl, speaking in a language I've never heard before. But judging by his scowl, I'm sure it wasn’t a compliment.
"Damn it... Damn it! Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, sir," I say, caught between my urge to flee and my need to make amends with this Terminator doppelgänger before he curses me out.
I crouch down, bending my knees, trying to push the ice cream off his boot with the disposable spoon, brushing away the bits of cone stuck to my hand.
"Look, I'm really sorry, I didn't see you. I think it won't even stain. Once you wash it, it'll be good as new." I look up, flashing the most awkward smile at the monstrous man, who makes my eyes widen.
I realize just how terrifyingly large he is, in every way—from his thick legs, which could be two of mine, clad in black jeans, to his broad chest now smeared with ice cream. He could indeed be a turbocharged 2.0 version of Arnold Schwarzenegger. I use the back of my hand to push my hair back, stretching my neck to take in his height. When I finally meet his gaze, looking down at me, I don't see a scowl, but rather an expression of surprise. His eyes are fixed on me, allowing what seems to be a smile to form on his square face. It's the most terrifying smile I've ever seen in my life.
"Zamanchivo."
"What?" I'm once again lost in what comes out of his mouth, blinking rapidly. "Sorry, but I don't understand..."
"Gregovivk!" My mind instantly recognizes the voice, and so does the rest of my body, which recoils, making me glance over my shoulder to see the most scowling face etched on Mr. Roy's features. His narrowed dark blue eyes, filled with fury, are focused on us.
Only one word flashes through my brain: run!
Before Mr. Roy can even get up from his chair, I'm already on my feet, shouting a quick "I'm so sorry" to the ice cream-covered man, and darting across the street as fast as I can. I can still hear the rumble of what seems like a growl coming from Jonathan's mouth as he commands my name. Do I even think of looking back? Not a chance! I just pick up the pace, beating a hasty retreat. My ice-cream-sticky fingers fumble through my purse, pulling out a tissue, which I use to wipe my hand clean. I'm already hopping, shifting my weight from leg to leg, as I slip on my flats, rounding the nearest corner. Why did I run? I don’t know. Maybe it was the murderous look in Roy's eyes, or perhaps it was my irritation at seeing him with another woman—I can't say for sure. I've never been the jealous type, which probably contributed to the cheating incident with Tom, but the truth is, I felt a pang of jealousy toward Jonathan, and it left me feeling uncomfortable. Pure jealousy at seeing another woman touching him.