There’s something on my porch.
I spot it immediately and then pause, looking around like someone might jump out and try to scare me. I’ve had my fair share of forgotten online purchases, but I know for a fact this isn’t one of them.
I walk up slowly, suspicious. I need to cool it on the true crime podcasts; they’re making me think everything is an attempt at kidnapping. As I get up to the porch, I realize it’s a plastic take-out bag filled with two styrofoam containers.
That’s strange. Strange, but not so strange I’m not going to rip open the bag immediately.
It’s tacos.
What?
Tacos, like the kind that come from a taco truck.
In my haste to open the bag, I missed the sticky note attached to it. I reach for it, unraveling it from its crumbled state.
Marisa,
I couldn’t in good conscience repurchase your gas station delicacies. Please accept these tacos as an apology forruining your dinner and being a grumpy asshole. I wasn’t sure what you would like, so I chose a variety.
Enjoy,
Ethan
I am absolutely shocked. I’d be less shocked if they had manifested out of thin air. I fight a smile as my stomach does a somersault.
He bought me food.
It’s a simple gesture, but it’s enough to crack the hardened image of him in my head. Maybe I was too quick to judge and there is a kind human under all that grouchiness after all.
I’m not sure what this means. Are we friendly now? Do we remain passing strangers? I’m full of questions, but there aren’t any answers here.
Leaving the food on my porch, I race over to Ethan’s and knock on his door. Approaching footsteps sound and a pair of puppy dog eyes greet me through the side window, but no Ethan. Disappointed, I go back to my respective cottage. He may not be home, but I know he was here recently, because the food is still piping hot.
I eat half the tacos, which may be the best I’ve ever had, and save the rest for another time.
I’ve barely closed the fridge when my phone rings. It’s Hillary calling to FaceTime.
“Hi,” I greet, swallowing my last bite.
“Shit, sorry you’re eating.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m done. What’s up?”
“Nothing is up with me, my life is boring as hell. You, on the other hand, have the goofiest smile. Do tell.”
I have to be careful with Hillary; she latches onto the smallest details and runs with them.
“Remember the guy I told you about? My asshole neighbor. ”
“Yeah.” She sits up straighter. “I thought we hated him.”
“He dropped me off some food. That’s what I was eating.”
“You ate it?” she asks, obviously alarmed.
“Why are you saying it like that? Do you think I shouldn’t have?”
She shakes her head, her eyes exasperated. “Sweetie, a man who has been nothing but rude to you since you’ve arrived woke up one day and decided to bring you food. It’s suspicious. I mean how well do you know this guy? He’s probably a psychopath.”
