Page 7 of Finding Parker

While turning to face Katelyn again, I raised my coffee cup in the air and waited for her to look in my direction. After a moment, she looked up from her book and grinned.

“Delicious,” I mouthed the word silently with my cup held high in the air.

She shook her head and placed the book on the table, marking her page with a small piece of paper. She picked up her coffee cup, yet left her books and purse on the table - indicating she had no intention of actually leaving the book store. As she walked my direction, I took a sip from my drink and fingered the screen of my tablet, fumbling to power it on.

“So, Parker. What’s your story?” she asked as she approached the table.

“Story?” I lowered my coffee cup to the table and cupped my hands around it as I looked up and into her eyes.

As she sat down I began speaking.

“I’m an only child. I grew up outside of Cincinnati, Ohio. I was raised by my grandmother and grandfather until my grandfather passed away. I was about six when he died of a heart attack. I have no real recollection of him at all, which isn’t surprising. Alone, my grandmother raised me until I graduated high school. I did well in school, received an academic scholarship, and attended UCSD on a full-ride. A few months ago I graduated, and I am now employed as an analyst for a local businessman. I suppose that’s about it,” I released the cup from my grasp, opened my hands, raised my eyebrows slightly, and waited for a response.

“Where were or are your parents? And what do you analyze?” she asked, smiling.

“They were killed in a car wreck when I was a little less than a year old. And,” I paused as I raised my hand to my chin.

“I analyze people. Well. Yes. Let’s stick with that. That’s about as correct as any other explanation. I analyze people,” I smiled as I slowly lowered my hand.

“I’m very sorry about your parents. And, you analyze people? How and why? Tell me how and why. Is that what you’re doing now?” she asked as she slowly wrinkled her brow.

“How? Well, I merely collect data, I suppose. What types of people do certain things; I look at where they go, what they do, and why. I gather information and provide it to my employer. I guess calling myself an analyst is a stretch. My employer is more of the analyst. I am the lowly grunt in the field,” I chuckled.

“And am I analyzing you now? No. Now I am enjoying the company of a very attractive woman. That’s all,” I fibbed slightly as I nodded my head in her direction.

“Something about you interests me, Parker. I’m not sure what, but something. Let’s keep talking and see what, if anything, we have in common. Sound good?” she smiled as she raked her fingers through the longer side of her hair.

“Sounds great. Yes, start talking, Katelyn. Tell me things about you,” I tilted my head slightly and looked along her torso admiringly.

She smiled, slowly raised her eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion, and looked up at the ceiling as she began to speak.

“Well, let’s see. I had an interesting childhood. Five sisters. I’m the youngest. The oldest is ten years older than me. My mother and father fell madly in love in college and remain true to each other after all this time,” she lowered her chin and took a drink from her coffee cup.

“My father was very strict, but I was rebellious. My sisters, for the most part, lived by his rules. I always made sure to do my best to break or at least stretch them. There’s always one kid that’s the wild child, and I guess I was that kid,” she grinned as she ran her fingers through her hair.

“So, six girls. Wow, that’s a lot of estrogen in one home,” I said as she crossed her legs and placed her hands in her lap.

“No. Five total. There are five of us. Five sisters. Sorry, I don’t have five sisters. We are five sisters. Or whatever. There’s five. Me and four others. Christi, who’s closest to me in age, is a whore,” she chuckled.

“That’s not nice to say about your sister,” I said as I leaned into the back of my chair, waiting for her to expand on the sexual adventures of her sister the whore.

“Well, she is. She can’t keep a boyfriend longer than about six weeks,” she paused and shook her head slightly.

“If you can even call them that. Boyfriends,” she huffed.

“She screws them. And then she leaves them. Call her whatever you want. But she uses them for sex. And she has commitment issues or something. So, in short, she’s a whore. A slut. But anyway, tell me more about you,” she raised her hands from her lap and pressed her fingers into her temples.

“Do you believe in love, Katelyn?” not certain of why I had asked the question, I sat and waited for her to answer.

She lowered her fingers from her temples and covered her pursed lips with her hands. Her eyes shifted to over my left shoulder and blinked a few times before she began to respond.

“I uhm. Well. Yes. Yes, I do. My parents are proof that it at least exists. I think it was or maybe is more prevalent in the older generation, and it’s what’s missing today in the nation’s youth. Kids today don’t love, they act. They do whatever they need to do – or what they think they need to do to get laid. It’s ridiculous,” her voice elevated in intensity as she spoke.

She paused and shifted her focus from peering over my shoulder to my eyes.

“I’m all for getting laid. But don’t tell me you love me so you can just fuck me. Be truthful; tell me you want to fuck me. Don’t cheapen the sex by calling it love. Call it what it is. It’s entertainment. It’s exciting. It’s a great way to kill an afternoon, evening, or night, but it’s not love. It’s like going to the beach, hiking, or learning how to ride a scooter. It’s an event. Love is forever. Fucking is entertainment. Don’t even get me started on this subject,” she exhaled and shook her head from side-to-side.

“It looks like I already did,” I hesitated and took a sip of my lukewarm coffee, “get you started, that is.”