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“Oh, fuck,” I manage to mutter, open-mouthed.
There, where a corner of the ceiling used to be, is now a partial piece of the mangled canopy of an ash tree. A spray of branches juts directly into the shower while the tiled floor is now carpeted with leaves and shorn-off bark, insulation, and dust. And now, of course, a steady trickle of water drips from the branches.
I step forward, desperate to do something, even though it’s clear there’s nothing to be done. The moment I do, a shard of tile comes falling through the branches, narrowly missing my head.
“Fuck!” I scream at the tree. It doesn’t respond.
I can’t imagine how this night could get any worse.
10
EMILE
Iwake up with a jolt. I’m certain I just had a strange dream, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what happened. As I begin to move, I feel every muscle in my body tense up and scream in protest. How did I manage to fall asleep in a chair? Slowly, I stand up and stretch out every aching inch of my body.
Satisfied, I begin to start my morning routine. I remember while applying sunscreen that a nasty storm was forecasted to roll through the night before. If I slept through it, it certainly couldn’t have been that bad. But still, I need to assess any possible damage.
From the upstairs window, I can survey most of my property. There are a few tree branches in the yard that’ll require a little sawing to dispose of. I sigh a little at the thought of the labor involved, and how the wood isn’t even good enough to use in anything. The tree they came from is in my neighbor’s yard, after all.
Speaking of, I pivot my view to get a good look at Clarissa’s house and… oh. Oh,shit.
It’s wrecked, to say the least. That tree in question appears to have fallen right onto the poor woman’s roof. I curse, thinking about how much rainwater must have gotten inside the house. I don’t consider myself a sexist guy or anything, and I’m sure some women know how to fix a roof, but nothing about our conversation at lunch made me think Clarissa was any sort of handyman.
She’s going to need some help. Obviously, I have to go over there. It’s only the neighborly thing to do. What man leaves his single female neighbor to fend for herself in this kind of situation?
I mentally free up my entire day and grab the half-finished welcome basket as an excuse to get my foot in the door. I don't want to come on too strong, after all. I’ll make small talk, casually bring up the disaster, and offer my professional services on the house. Or maybe I’ll just say free of charge.
It’s the right thing to do. I add the peaches and a book on local wildlife I never really used, just to make the basket look less insultingly empty. Then, I do my best to ensure I look equal parts down-home neighborly and uptown suave.
It’s difficult when you have a somewhat translucent reflection, but I make do. Adding a pair of sunglasses for equal parts fashion and safety, I’m ready to charm the pants off of my poor unfortunate neighbor. I have to remind myself I’m notdoing thatanymore and calm down.
I take a breath to focus, rehearse my re-introduction a few more times, then knock on the door. And wait. And wait. Andwait. Just as I’m about to leave, I hear footsteps and then a silent pause, followed by some frantic muttering. Finally, the sound of two different locks click and the door creaks open.
I smile wide. “Hey, neighbor! I just wanted… to…” I look Clarissa up and down with breathless amazement. She looksawful. I mean, she’s gorgeous like she always is, but this woman has been through the wringer.
She’s still in her pajamas, which in itself isn’t that important, but they are soaking wet. Her hair is dripping and rests flat against her forehead, and her eyes look bloodshot. Everything about Clarissa is shouting her absolute exhaustion and despair.
Good thing I’m here, then.
“Looks like you had a rough night,” I finally say.
“You didn’t?” Clarissa asks, despondent.
“Heavy rain helps me sleep. So, I brought this over for you,” I say, offering the basket.
Clarissa takes it and only seems to half notice the contents. “Thanks. Thank you! I love… sauce,” she says while attempting to read the barbeque sauce label.
I consider going through my rehearsed speech of welcoming her to the neighborhood, telling her about the town, all the niceties. But the current situation seems much more dire than I expected, so I decide to cut to the chase.
“I saw you had some roof damage. Mind if I take a look at it?” I ask.
Clarissa looks back at me with wide eyes. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, but she looks genuinely scared of me. Not just annoyed in the way that tells me she caught me checking out her ass, butfearful.Is she secretly a vampire bigot? Or did I really blow it that badly at lunch?
Finally, Clarissa shakes her head a bit like she’s just woken up and forces a smile. “Right, yeah, you do carpentry stuff. You’d probably know how screwed I am. Sure, please, come in!”
Clarissa awkwardly stumbles back inside the house and sets the basket down on the kitchen counter. “I’m sorry about… this,” she says, pulling at her wet sweatpants. “I wasn’t really expecting company.”
“That’s alright, not much different from what I’ve seen you in before. And you pull it off really well, anyway,” I comment. Clarissa’s face goes beet red at the compliment, and I remember I probably wasn’t supposed to talk about her jogging pants, even though for once I wasn’t thinking about the great view of her ass.
