I had just finished filling the compartments of the stand that had been in front of our house for years, and as I made the tomatoes and corn look just right in their places, I remembered how my wife used to get upset if the display looked ragged. The idea of selling vegetables out of the little cart had been the idea of my late wife Carol, and I kept filling the thing as a way to keep her memory alive after she passed, I guess.
It sure wasn't for the income. Most people were honest, dropping money into the locked box that was nailed to the end of the little cart, but I didn't charge that much for the stuff anyway. A heck of a lot less then the supermarkets in the city did, and it was something to do to pass the time.
As I turned to go back up the driveway, I saw the little figure pedaling up the dusty road toward my house. It was little Whitney Allen from down the road, and I felt the same way that I had the last three days when the girl had come visiting, a mixture of dread and excitement.
The dread came from the fact that the girl was trouble waiting to happen. At 60, I figured that I was about four times her age, which made me way too old in every way, and while I knew she was just a kid who liked to flirt, I'm still a man. The fact that I had been a widower for a couple of years, was lonely and still had the urges that all men have only made it worse.
The excitement came from the fact that while Whitney was not a voluptuous girl, she was a perky little thing with bright red hair and freckles who had a natural beauty about her and liked to flaunt herself. I knew that this was 1993, but it still stunned me that girls dressed like they did.
I made it to the picnic table in the back of my yard before Whitney caught up to me, jingling the little bell on her bike that was almost as old as she was, and while I tried to pretend that I hadn't seen her, I think she knew better.
"Morning Mr. Douglas," Whitney chirped. "How's business?"
"The same as usual," I said, and next came the inevitable offer of hers to work at my stand, which I declined as usual.
"You'd fall asleep out there waiting for customers."
"Nothing to do around here anyway," Whitney mused as she put the kickstand down and walked over toward me.
"Can't argue with that," I agreed, the tedium having gotten to our two kids as well, and they had moved away to more lively areas as soon as they found mates.
I sat down at the table and started fiddling with the lawn ornament which was falling apart with age, like me I suppose, and as I tried to screw in the spinning thing that was supposed to look like a plane's propeller I watched Whitney out of the corner of my eye as she unbuttoned the short sleeved shirt she wore.
This was something she had done yesterday as well, and I suspected that she would end up tying the shirt around her waist like she did the day before as well. She had something on underneath of course, and today it was a white cotton t-shirt, one of those wife beater tank-top things.
Like the more modest top Whitney had on yesterday, she wore nothing underneath it, and while the snug top showed that while Whitney might not really need to wear a bra, she probably should because there was little left to the imagination without the undergarment. Little Whitney might not have much on top but she had big nipples and they sure poked out in that t-shirt.
"Your folks know you dress like that?" I asked while trying not to look at Whitney's breasts, which weren't much bigger than ping-pong balls. "I mean, you leave the house with the blouse on, but do they know you walk around like that after you're out of their sight?"
"I dunno. You want to tell them?" Whitney said, and then did what she did the day before, which was to reach up and hold the edge of the umbrella.
Predictably, I found myself unable to resist the urge to look, and I could see Whitney was amused by my weakness.
"It's gonna be another hot one today," Whitney said. "Might as well try to stay cool, and besides, you seem to like to look. Least that's the way it seems to me."
"I see you still didn't shave," I said while nodding toward the wild sprays of red hair that practically exploded from the deep hollows of her armpits.
"I told you that if you wanted to, you could shave them for me," Whitney cooed, reaching over with her right hand to rake her fingers through her left armpit while giving me a look that suggested she knew all about me. "Lot of men like it though. I know a guy who used to be married to a woman who didn't shave her pits."
I sighed, regretting the fact that people seemed to know a lot about each other these days. That guy Whitney talked about was me, and the woman Whitney referred to was my late wife, who eschewed fashion trends and razors with my blessings.
"Sorry," Whitney mumbled after sensing that mentioning my wife like that had brought me down a little, but it didn't stop her from continuing to tease me with her display of her natural charms.
Whitney and I had spoken about this yesterday, when she first started flaunting herself. I had been stunned not only that the girl didn't shave, but that a little girl could have so much hair under her arms.
"I'm not a kid, you know," Whitney had declared, although when she said she was 18 that did seem unbelievable, and I guess she saw where my eyes went after she said that.
"I know they ain't very big," Whitney had said, nodding towards her breasts. "Nobody ever complained yet, and I ain't ashamed."
I had assured her she shouldn't be, and tried to change the topic. Overnight I did the math and I guessed that Whitney was right. The years had sure flown by, and went even faster now that I aged. The girl was indeed a woman now.
"I thought you liked me, Mr. Douglas," Whitney said after I did my best to ignore the little nymphet hanging on the umbrella.
"I do, Whitney, but I'm busy," I said, fumbling with the screw that wouldn't cooperate.
"That goes on the other side," Whitney said with a smile as she watched my attempt and being a handyman with amusement. "If you weren't busy trying to look at me while you did that, you would have had that done by now. Why don't you just look at me and stop pretending you aren't? I like it when you check me out. It makes my nipples hard."
"Look Whitney, I know you think I'm a sad old man that you like to make fun of..."
"No I don't," Whitney said. "I like you, Mr. Douglas. Always have."
"Then you should realize that while I may be old, I'm still a man, and have the same urges most men do," I snapped.
"I know. I can see your boner," Whitney said, nodding down toward the tent that my erection was making in my baggy trousers. "Saw it yesterday too. Looks like you got a big one."
"That's something you'll never find out, dear," I said, finally getting the contraption put back together. "I've known your family for a long time, and there's no way I would take advantage of a young lady like you."
"I'm not going to tell anybody, Mr. Douglas," Whitney said, mercifully lowering her arms and giving me one less thing to unsuccessfully ignore. "And I ain't no virgin either?"
"You aren't a virgin, you mean," I corrected.
"Whatever. Haven't been for a while. Want to know who did me first?"
"No, I don't," I assured her.
"It's okay. He's dead now," Whitney said, as if that made a difference. "Remember Sheriff Higgins?"
"The county Mountie who crashed into the bridge abutment a few years ago?" I asked, recalling the asshole who gave me a ticket when he first started on the force.
"Yeah. I got caught shoplifting a lipstick at Woolworth's and they called the police," Whitney explained. "They do that to scare kids. Have the cops take you home and read the riot act top your folks, but he didn't take me home. He took me out to Bennett Pond, took me back to one of the picnic tables and made me take my clothes off."
