Making Lemonade

[This story is written to an exactly 750-words for the 750 Word Project 2022.]

Harry watched the blonde waitress, blowsy but good enough looking to get his juices going, arguing with a guy down the Galveston, Texas, diner counter. As the trucker pulled off the stool and backed toward the door, the waitress grabbed a coffee pot and flounced down to Harry. She savagely, but expertly, refilled his cup.

Just retired and randy, Harry was coasting across country toward having a good old time in Las Vegas. He wanted to change his life, enjoy his retirement. His first move had been to jettison nagging Joyce. This blonde looked tasty.

"Man trouble?" he asked.

She gave him an assessing look, recovering quickly from her fight with the trucker.

"That was Leroy," she said. "He promised to take me to Las Vegas. He'd get a trucking gig out there, he said. Now he's going to Canada. Who the hell wants to go to Saskatchewherever?"

"Vegas, eh?" Harry said. "That's where I'm headed. Name's Harry."

"Is it?" she asked, smiling, clearly interested. "I'm Tracey."

"The question," Harry said, "is how easy are you if you still want to see Vegas?"

Tracy not only was easy; she was good at it. She rode Harry's cock in his motel room, showing him moves neither Joyce nor any of the other women he'd fucked had. He lay on his back on the bed, holding her slim waist between his beefy hands, with Tracey saddled on him in a cowboy, facing away from him, grasping his knees, and bouncing up and down on his erection, as he cupped and kneaded her ample breasts.

* * * *

". . . and you just take those lemons and make yourself some mighty fine lemonade. That's what my momma always said. Did your momma have apples of wisdom like that, Harry?"

Apples of wisdom? Sheeet, Harry thought. It had been like this for the three hours northwest from Galveston. The bitch had run at the mouth nonstop. He didn't say anything. He couldn't have gotten a word in edgewise anyway. He hunkered down and increased the Chrysler 300's speed by ten miles, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

Tracey's gum snapped and she pulled her right foot out of stiletto pumps and propped it up on the dashboard, turning it this way and that, looking at the purple nail polish.

"'Bout time to redo these. What do you think, Harry? Blue? Chartreuse? Maybe you could do them for me when we get to the motel."

Sheeet, Harry thought. He said nothing.

* * * *

The exit signs off I-10 were for Segun.

"Can we stop somewhere, honey? I gotta pee."

He had been hoping to get beyond San Antonio before stopping, but he felt wrung out. Would the woman never stop talking? He couldn't take any more of this. The sex was great, but . . . "Sure, why not?"

He stopped at a Circle K on 123, just off the highway, and both he and a beefy guy standing at the register inside the window watched Tracey slink on stilettos to the ladies' room.

She smiled at the guy at the register in passing. He leered back. Giving him a saucy grin, Tracey walked on. He made a little rumbling noise on her return trip past him. He was busy turning the register over to someone else. Cliff was the station manager and about to leave on his semiannual gambling vacation.

When Tracey got out to the pumps, she saw that Harry and the Chrysler 300 were gone. Left behind was her suitcase. She looked up the road and down the road. No Chrysler 300. No Harry. She sat down on her suitcase.

Fifteen minutes later, Cliff came out of the building. As he was moving to his truck, he saw Tracey sitting there, on a suitcase.

"You been abandoned, sweetie?" he asked, coming over to her.

"Harry's just gone to get something. He'll be back. He's taking me to Vegas."

They both knew Harry wasn't coming back, but they both knew there was that spark between them, and Cliff, fortuitously was leaving in the morning for Vegas.

"I'm on my way to Vegas," he said. "How about that?"

"Well, as my momma always says, as long as you're dealt lemons . . ."

Cliff didn't know what the hell that meant, but what he hoped was that Tracey was dynamite in the sack.

That night, Cliff loved the cowboy cock ride, but would she just shut the fuck up?