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“Tell that to that squash head, Maxim.” She started down the ladder. “He thinks he can mess with me and I’ll fold. But I won’t. Not ever.”
I shouldn’t allow myself to be drawn into her drama. I should stay focused on my proposition. Yet…I couldn’t help but wonder, “Who is Maxim?”
She didn’t answer. When she reached the bottom of the ladder, she peered up at her handiwork with a glimmer ofsatisfaction in her eye. Then she grabbed the ladder and threw it toward the platform above. It didn’t reach, not by a long shot, and fell back down.
“Would you like some assistance?” I asked.
“Ha.No.”
She pulled what appeared to be a metal tube with a plastic shark’s head on it from the messenger bag that crossed her puffy coat. She pushed a button, and the shark’s jaw opened and chomped down on the rope. She pulled on the shark, extending the metal cylinder into a fifteen-foot-long pole. Then she used the extended grabber to place the end of the rope on the second-story platform.
With a satisfied grin, she said, “Take that,Maxim.”
Again I wondered who this Maxim person was, but more importantly, what could possibly be going through Layana’s head. I would never claim to be good at reading people, but this woman was so far from the realm of my understanding I couldn’t fathom the distance.
She released the rope and retracted her pole so it was only a foot in length.
“Don’t come back. This is a definitive rejection. I will never marry you. Understand and vamoose.” She made the little shark head snap an inch from my nose to punctuate her point. Then she strode past me and walked away.
Mildly infuriated and utterly flummoxed, I yelled after her, “It was meant to bea job proposal.”
EIGHT
LAYANA
The ice-cold metal slats of the park’s bench dug into my tailbone, but I didn’t care. The streetlamp above me combatted the quickly disappearing sunlight. I still had almost an hour before I had to walk the rest of the way to work, and words were flowing.
I picked up right where I’d left off on the blog post that was going to set my life back on track. My fingers delightfully clacked across my shoddy keyboard.
Wearing frostbite as a badge of honor, he shouts, “Layers are for lasagnas!”
Perhaps the curly black hair coating his skin like moldy moss protects him well enough from the elements. More likely, he’s about to wish he’d stocked up on vitamin C instead of sleeveless undershirts.
That’s right, proudly sporting goosebumps as if they’re this season’s hottest trend, Maximum Disgust wears tank tops no matter the weather.
As a general sentiment, I’m all for defiance of norms.
Defy expectations.
You do you.
Go forth and transform yourself into a human popsicle. But if you’re going to refuse manscaping, actual clothing, and common sense, don’t expect the rest of us to willingly make eye contact.
I leaned backand stared at my work. I’d done it. I’d actually completed a blog post for the first time in what felt like forever.
I put together some accompanying photos, ran through a few edits, and clicked post.
Satisfaction washed over me.
This was the moment everything turned around for me. This was when my sense of purpose renewed, and I was certain I’d write every day from this moment forward.
Three daysof the usual routine ensued, with Morgan calling to check in on me.
Three days of enthusiastic comments poured in.
Three days passed without me writing a single word.
What was wrong with me? Had my Tragic Tank Topper blog post siphoned every ounce of creativity out of me and left me abandoned in the desolate wasteland of writer’s block? I felt hollow. Uninspired.
