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He breaks through the last line of trees before he reaches my small yard—still partitioned into sad sod squares that have never really thrived despite the moisture of the forest.
My eyes roll once more over his gray hoodie, jeans, and nondescript black sneakers. Nike running sneakers, I note, as he saunters up to my porch.
I can’t help noticing he looks tired again. Maybe even more tired than last time I saw him. I stand up slowly and smile in welcome, even though I hate to smile. He lifts his eyebrows, looking moody. When he’s just a three or four feet away, I step down the porch steps. “Hey, neighbor. Doing okay?”
He nods, folding his arms. “Yeah. Why?” He frowns.
“You look a little tired or something. Sorry. I’m one of those people who says everything I think. It’s not one of my selling points. I’ll try to keep my commentary to myself. I had a long day, and I’m tired too.” I stand up and start stretching my shoulders. He’s so inert, with his arms still folded, I’m starting to get nervous.
I’m relieved when he takes my cue and starts stretching his own upper body. “What kind of long day?” he asks. His eyes cling to me for just a moment, then move back to what he’s doing with his arm.
“I saw my speech therapist, in downtown Gatlinburg. Her name is Reagan, and she’s super hard on me. Which is good,” I say, stretching my arms over my head. I feel his eyes on me and lose my train of thought. A quick breath, and I’ve got it back. “She’s the biggest part of why I can speak clearly now, after the accident paralyzed this side of my mouth. I used to go three times a week and — anyway, it’s just kind of tiring. I think I still attach stressful feelings to going there, even though she’s turned into a friend and I’m almost over all my speech issues now.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. God, I’m sure I’m boring him to tears. “Nothing exciting,” I summarize. “Just a very tasky day, and now I’m feeling lazy.”
“Tasky?” He smirks, and spreads his legs to stretch.
“It should be in Webster’s,” I say. My cheeks flush at his pose, which is ridiculous, and which I pray to God, Allah, and Moses, that he doesn’t notice. “Tell me you’ve never had a day that’s tasky. Boring, lots of mundane stuff to do, and tiring at the end. It’s not really tasky,” I say, mimicking his stretch, “unless you’re totally exhausted at the end and you feel almost no real satisfaction.”
He nods.
“So how about your day?”
His pretty eyes lift to meet mine, though his head is still tucked down. He shrugs, bending one knee so he can stretch the muscles on the inside of his thighs.
“Fine,” he says simply.
“Oh, c’mon. No exciting tales of blowing bubbles, hunting down organic avocadoes at the grocery store, or flipping through TV channels? Don’t tell me my boring, tasky day has got yours beat.”
He stands straight up, pulling one leg behind him to stretch his thigh.
“Damn, that’s good form,” I say, at the same moment he says, “Blowing bubbles?”
“Huh?”
He smiles—a patiently obliging, almost shy-looking smile—and steps over to my porch steps, pulling the toes of his right foot up toward his shin and stretching his calf with the help of my step. “You said you were blowing bubbles?”
“Yeah. At speech.” I laugh. Embarrassing.
“What does that help with?”
“Just getting my mouth stronger. Helping my lips re-learn to make an ‘o.’” The comment sounds perverted to my sensitive ears. I can feel my cheeks burn. Damn fair skin to hell.
When I brave a look at his face, he’s not smirking or cracking jokes. He looks natural and curious.
“Tell me what you mean.”
My cheeks sting anew. All this focus on me… I stretch my calves too, my smaller shoe beside his on the stair’s edge. “It’s just weaker on the left side. I still have a little trouble saying certain words. Anyway, by the time speech therapy is over, I feel like I need a drink or something. Have you ever had absinthe?”
“Once or twice.” He nods, and takes a big step from the porch. He moves his big body effortlessly into a flawless side kick. “Mostly French,” he says.
I struggle to stay looking natural, versus impressed, which is how I feel after he does a few more flawless-looking kicks.
I do a side-kick of my own, and feel embarrassed. Years ago, my form looked more like his, but—it doesn’t matter what he says about my kick—it’s nothing anyone would watch admiringly.
“You should come in and have some, sometime. No pressure or anything. I just got a recipe for Death in the Afternoon, which is basically champagne and absinthe, if you didn’t know.”
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