An Anthology of Tales

The Siren

There was this place called The Front Row.

It was a street full of lovely accessory and food shops on one side and the sea on the other. I rode my bike down the Front Row to get to school and back everyday; I trekked slowly on weekends when I was bored, admiring things I'd seen a million times over and could tell when each shop had been restocked even without asking.

My little town of BlueKey was actually very predictable. Anyone could predict just how long it would rain for, or how fast the tide would drop; how suddenly the sun would rise in the morning, the over exaggerated price of sexy swimsuits during summer, and the number of shark incidents we would get in a month. There were no surprises in BlueKey and even though the street clown, Nezzar, showed up dressed as a mime and a teacher on a particular Sunday, he did not as much as extract an "ooh" from a passing two year old.

But, the day Dylan Kilgore from the ice cream shop walked up to me and asked to kiss me, was the most shocking thing ever.

I'd seen Dylan a couple of times in The Front Row, when I biked past his uncle's ice cream shop. He was an untalkative, charming guy, with icy blue eyes that made me think had LED lights somewhere behind his eye sockets. He always wore a blue apron over nicely fitted sweaters. I thought it strange that his hands were never in his pockets like every other male. Instead, there was always something he fiddled with; a toothpick, a popsicle stick, a piece of paper, thingamajigs and whatnot.

He rarely spoke to anyone other than William, his uncle, and Emerson, the candy shop owner. A lot of girls had a massive crush on him, but he never really gave them a double take. I'd seen a good number try so hard to impress him; touch his hand, or get him to sit at their table for a chat, but Dylan always remained politely unresponsive.

I suspected for a while that he was either sick or really depressed.

He'd stared patiently at me whilst I gaped like a dumb fish, wondering if his eyesight had gone dim.

"M-Me?" I asked, touching my chest.

He smiled warmly and nodded.

"It's. . ." I glanced about, hoping that no one was looking. Thankfully, BlueKey remained BlueKey and everyone minded their own business.

"Maisie. It's me, Maisie." I offered, still certain he'd walked up to the wrong person. I was already starting to think his request was a sort of constructed prank, the kind boys put up on social media for attention.

"Yes." He chuckled softly. "I know it's you, Maisie."

I absentmindedly nodded in consent and he came close. He smelled like three different ice cream flavors, but when he kissed me, he tasted like watermelon. I held on to him and he did likewise, gently pushing my body into his. The streets weren't crowded, but the unexpected PDA would have caused anyone to stop and stare. Yet, no one did.

When Dylan pulled away and smiled at me, I believed I'd marry him someday.

I called him Dilly afterwards for several reasons; one, because he was one in a dillion, two - he smelled like fragrance; three, because he was remarkable - a soothing presence - four, because he was the runt of the litter, and five, because his left pinky was adorably small, like a dill pickle I saw once. We dated for over a year, and during that time, half the girls of BlueKey developed serious beef with me.

I'd won the ice cream boy over without taking part in the competition.

Dylan said I was ten times lovelier than all the other girls. He always used words like that for me. He said I spoke less and laughed like my voice was a secret. He said he liked how brown my hair was. They matched my eyes, and more often than not - my boots. He said my breathing was as rhythmic as song and that he was first drawn to me when he once heard me humming something by Carly Rae Jepsen in the public bathroom. It eventually became his ringtone.