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Under the shade of an elm tree, Emile is working in his garden, bent over with a look of concentration plastered on his face. I slow my jog, and I can’t tell if it’s because I want to put off the inevitably awkward conversation or because I’m enjoying the view. Unlike a human, who would be covered in sweat right now, Emile’s skin appears dry, smooth, and soft to the touch. With his dark hair, pale skin, and fine features he looks like a marble statue, every rippling muscle expertly chiseled into cool white stone.
He looks way too good, and my mind flashes back to the night he offered me a room, wondering if this is the view I would have been greeted with in the morning. Perhaps a glimpse of Emile stepping out of the shower, getting ready for work. Maybe a flash of his muscles flexing as he pulled on a shirt…
I realize I’m well and truly staring now, almost at a standstill at the edge of Emile’s property. I know if he looks up he’ll find his next-door neighbor straight-up ogling him. Not cool.
I know I can’t stall any longer, and as I approach the yard, Emile looks up, thankfully while I’m looking relatively normal.
He greets me with a broad smile, and I can’t help but return the gesture.
“Hey,” I say, not really knowing where to go from here, especially as the entirely inappropriate fantasy still lingers in my head.
Luckily if Emile is feeling awkward about yesterday, he doesn’t show it.
“Hey,” he says, getting up from where he was crouching over the sail and walking toward me. “How’s the fern doing?”
Of all the questions he could have asked concerning yesterday’s interaction, I can’t believe he’s chosen literally the only one I’m capable of answering. I wish I could show him how grateful I am for that, but that would ruin the whole thing. Instead, I just smile widely and answer.
“She’s doing great!” I tell him with genuine enthusiasm. “She really spruces up the bathroom, thank you.”
“She?” Emile asks with an amused smile. “Are you in the habit of anthropomorphizing inanimate objects?”
“Only living ones, I guess,” I answer, trying not to think too hard about the leaf-hands and branch-elbows that terrorized me just one short week ago. “Like that ash tree that crashed through my roof. He was a real bastard.”
Emile laughs heartily at this, and I realize how lovely his laugh is. It comes from deep within him, and it makes me want to tell more jokes just to be able to hear it again.
“So, does the plant have a name, too?” he asks, still smiling.
I wrack my brain trying to think of something funny.
“I was thinking Fernanda,” I tell him, hoping that’s enough to elicit another laugh.
To my delight, it works, and Emile lets out another lovely chuckle.
“It’s perfect,” he says. “Where did you end up placing her?”
I can tell he actually cares, that he’s not just making small talk, and it’s oddly moving. After having to hide and lie and pretend for the last few weeks, it’s actually incredibly significant to have a real conversation, even if it’s about something as small as this. Just the fact that I don’t have to lie about it feels meaningful to me.
“On the windowsill,” I tell him, gesturing back toward the house, even though there’s no way we can see the fern from here. “The glass is frosted so it shouldn’t let in too much light.”
Somehow, it’s very important to me that Emile knows I intend to take very good care of Fernanda.
“Sounds like you know what you’re doing,” he replies with a grin that warms my heart.
“And how’s the build going?” I ask, gesturing to the sail.
All the resolve I held earlier today about not maintaining a connection with Emile has dissipated, replaced with the joy of conversing with him like this. I truly expected it to be strained, but the words are flowing so quickly and easily. I hardly even feel like I’m lying to him. I guess because, right now, I’m not.
“It’s going well! I’ve actually got two guys down at the dock helping me catch up now,” Emile replies, and I see his eyes light up as he says it. “You remember I told you about the jib and genoa?”
I nod, trying to remember what he told me in the burger joint that day. Mostly I remember being relieved I could get him to talk about himself so I could avoid having to lie to him, but some of the sailing jargon leaked through.
“Those were for the sails for the front of the boat?” I ask, hoping I’ve guessed right.
“Exactly!” Emile replies, clearly overjoyed that I managed to retain something. “They’re just laying them out now, checking that all the stitching is right before I start rigging.”
He looks overjoyed, and I get the feeling he’s waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, he jumps in.
“That means the boat will be ready to sail,” he says, as a hint.
