Excerpt: What A Difference A Dave Makes.

Carmela felt herself remembering how nice and attentive Dave had been to her that evening at dinner in the hotel’s restaurant. He had ordered a steak and some vegetables and did not admonish her for not eating much. She of course had gotten herself a salad with lemon juice and olive oil on the side and baked fish. And she was sipping a plain soda water over ice. She nibbled at the roll it came with and chewed her lettuce thoroughly and she and Dave had talked about all sorts of things. He had even made her laugh when he showed her a sketch of an invention he had: something that would move the dead seal out to sea without spreading the odor and other effluvia all over the beach.
Then he showed her a mock up he carried with him, a prototype of a pen he was working on. He said he wanted to name it after her because it was so smooth and reliable. She had smiled and laughed, but at that moment, for some reason, she did not want to be the namesake of a good pen. She wanted Dave to recognize that there was something in her that called out to him, not with permanent gel ink, but with blood, flesh and breath. She recognized that she was Dave’s employee, maybe his top sales rep, but she could not control these new feelings. Something like a yeasty, sweet roll was rising in her. Carmela hid them as best as she could, stuffing them away, taking tiny, measured bites of her plain baked fish. She felt as if she had to protect herself, putting a shield on, moving herself away several feet in her mind and she asked polite questions about the pen.
Dave answered as if that was all he cared about. And maybe it was, the thick dunce, Carmela thought. Stupid of her to surrender to the enchantment of the beach, the sweet rain, the roar of the waves, drowning out the pounding of her own heart.