Page 60 of Grouch-ish

Ten logs for chopping

January 4

Chapter 17

[Pear]

On day ten, Brock makes his own To-Do list, which includes splitting ten stumps he found that needed chopping to replenish our firewood stack.

He starts out in his winter jacket but quickly shifts to that heavy camel-colored sweater he wore earlier. Then he’s down to only a flannel which hugs his form. Biceps bulging. Back muscles straining.

There is something ridiculously sexy about a man chopping wood.

The ax. The power. The split.

It so primeval and my body is on fire as I sip hot chocolate and watch him through the window.

This is better than reality television. It’s reality.

And when the day ends, we’re making our own heat again.

Day 11

Eleven pipin’ pick-up (lines)

January 5

Chapter 18

[Brock]

I’m grateful for the logs I split yesterday, because by midday, the power goes out. With weather warnings of six to forty-eight inches, which is quite a disparity in prediction, the outdoors has become a winter whiteout. We can’t see more than a few centimeters out the windows, which rattle a little as the wind howls. The scene could be considered frightful, but inside is delightful, as the song goes.

“The day feels ripe for napping,” Pear says, wandering up beside me near the window as the light inside the house fades. We haven’t broken out candles, letting the blaze in the fireplace illuminate the room.

“I feel like I’m totally slacking,” I counter. While Pear has given me list after list of items to complete, I’ve finished the tasks quicker each day, spending more time lingering in her company than working on projects.

I need a good report from Pear. Need to prove myself to Cap. I can’t lose the fire department.

However, I am more concerned now that I’ll lose Pear. She hadn’t offered a definition for us the other night and I don’t want to ask again. However, I really want to keep seeing her somehow.

“When do you return to Atlanta?” She’d told me she arrived on Christmas day, and the calendar has almost reached two weeks, a standard period of vacation leave.

“Oh. Uhm. About that?” She ducks her head and brushes hair around one ear. “I’m actually not returning.”

“Really?” I clear my throat after the too-surprised and too-hopeful response. “I mean, really.”

With her eyes fixated on the swirling snow outside the window, she explains, “I quit my job.”

“What?” My shock cannot be contained. “Why?”

Pear sighs before offering a quick glance at me then returns her gaze to the window. “It’s a long story.”

“And we have time.” When the power went out, a local outage notice came through our cell phones with no estimation on when the electricity will be restored. Glancing back toward the window, I estimate it won’t be anytime soon, so we have plenty of time to discuss Pear’s situation.

“I told you that Reggie had a gambling issue. He’d set us . . . me . . . back three years with his delinquent tax payments. I was grateful I had a job, and I was good at what I did, but I didn’t love the place.”

Pear has already told me she worked in sales for a major pre-packaged food distributor. They sold anything from frozen peas to fresh chicken.