At Least They're Committed

I made it, I made it. Fool that I am, I checked out Weather.com and determined that 75 degrees F was an OK temp for a 2-hour walk to return DSII’s delinquent video game. Within half a mile, it became clear that the temperature was far more than 75 degrees. Maybe 85. I’ll pay the extra fine; I imagine having a heat stroke is wildly unflattering. I took a detour, taking a 3-mile walk instead, and stopping by the liquor store  before the final three-quarter mile trek.

DS had given me a key to my house for my bachelorette weekend; I hadn’t had one in years having lent mine out to anyone who needed a spot to stay. But when I slid it into the lock and felt the bolts loosen and fall, I sensed I was still not alone.

Overheated and red-faced, I stepped inside and dropped the goods — two bottles of beer and one bottle of wine — by the door. He sat at the table. “Hey,” I said and he smiled, shuffling cards, but did not look up.

I fished through my psychedelic thrift-store bag, pulled out my wallet and phones and then the beer and wine.

“You know,” he said blandly. “The one, the skinny one would be concerned about that tweet. If he were to read it of course.”

I smiled and opened the freezer, pulling out a bin of ice. “By my Leviticus? Concerned by me or for me?” I quip. “He’s distracted anyway.” I dump two gallons of half-moon shaped ice over the beer, wine and Diet Pepsi, and the walls in the house erupt with a cacophony of noise as the frozen water angrily hits the glass bottles.

“Both, likely,” he says, setting the cards down and looking up. “And methinks the other isn’t taking your ‘best of luck’ in the vein of which you intended.”

“Figures,” says I.

“You going to respond?” he asks as I uncork the wine.

“Neuwp,” the cork pops slightly and I pour us each a glass. “Insult to injury, my dear.’”

He chuckles. “I’m not sure he’s so clever as that,” he says. I lean my elbows on the table and rub my eyes as he continues. “He’s said as much himself.”

“Nor am I so clever,” I reply.

“You’d like to think not,” he counters, taking a sip. “So that’s it then, you’re done.”

“Yeuwp!” I drop my right hand and snag my wine.

“And the boy running across the street?”

We stand and move toward the front yard, the screen door slams behind us as we plant ourselves in the cloth chairs on the porch. I extend my legs and survey the bruises on my calves from the rearranging I’ve done in the house. “He’s adorable, isn’t he? Only exchanged pleasantries before, met officially that morning and there he is, seeing me before I saw him, running to catch up with me, smiling, sneaking a breath mint and sharing his story with me on the bus ride home.”

He notices my smile and the cock of my head and  he smiles, too, leaning back and looking at the clouds.

“Is he another?” I ask. “He didn’t seem to be so, so . . . ”

“Needy?” he asks. “I don’t know. But he saw you for who you are.”

“Well, that’s nice,” I smile and nod and we’re quiet for a few minutes, watching the blackbird family on the lawn play out the circle of life, chick fully capable of flying lands hard, mom feeds him, dad chides, chick flies away, mom and dad watch, look at each other and walk like tiny veloceraptors to other destinations. “What chapter is this?” I ask at last.

“I’ve lost count,” he sighs, and smiles. He raises his glass and we clink.

I shake my head. “So have I, my friend. So have I.”