two feet, one mouth
We're in the car with the windows open, driving east on I-290, and arguing over something inane. I think it has something to do with goldfish breeds, but I lost track of the conversation twenty minutes ago, upon the discovery that they really do sell ice cream in little globs, coated in crunchy chocolate.
"Ugh. Someone hit a raccoon," Laura says. "Wish I hadn't seen that."
"That's why I never look at the road when I'm driving," I tell her, my brain two seconds behind my mouth, as usual.
She shoots me a horrified look over her shoulder, and yet again I have to wonder how I haven't managed to scare her off yet.
---
The sound of hammering drifting up from the basement is overwhelming. I've been up since 8:30, and it's now noon, and I haven't yet had a quiet moment. Mum's left a pile of letters and bills on the kitchen table, waiting to be posted; I scoop them up, fish a few pins out of my pocket and jam them into my hair one-handed, creating a messy but serviceable knot that will keep my neck from melting and oozing down my shirt collar in this lovely 90-degree weather, and head to the front door.
I yank it open, and am confronted by the electrician's apprentice, who has one hand poised to ring the doorbell. We stare at each other for an agonizingly long moment, while I become increasingly aware that my hair is two seconds from tumbling out of its restraints; I'm wearing a sleeveless shirt and short skirt that's rumpled from the morning I spent trying to drown out the sound of construction work with clarinet; my feet are bare, my nose is freckled. He has nice shoulders; his hands are greasy but nicely shaped; his curly dark hair is only a shade messier than my own, and he's smiling lopsidedly down at me from a height of somewhere near six feet.
"Hi!" he proclaims brightly. "We're almost done here, just wanted to let your mum know."
"Er," I say, intelligently. "Sure, I'll tell her."
His smile, if possible, grows more lopsided. He has a sprinkle of freckles across his nose, to match mine; I swallow nervously and notice that his eyes are a very clear blue. "Do you go to school around here?" he asks.
"Um, no," I say. "Ohio. Little tiny place out in the middle of nowhere, out in Ohio. I'm just home for the summer."
"That's awesome," he replies, and then, before I have a chance to blink or sneeze or sidle out around him and make a run for the mailbox, he launches into a detailed description of his oceanography courses at Bryant, and how he's working for his dad over the summer but now that he's done with his freshman year he wants to do something a little more out there; I smile and nod and ask him about field work. He finishes up, smiles again in what can only be described as a hopeful manner, and then pulls this brilliant jewel out of his back pocket: "So... are you going to be around all summer, then, or are you traveling, or...?"
He's the same age as Anna and Abigail. I bite my lip. "Actually," I say slowly, "Actually, I'm spending the summer researching the mating habits of the yellow-bellied warbling clamsucker. In Mongolia. With my boyfriend. We're leaving next week." I slip past him, shut the door firmly behind me, and begin wading through the ankle-deep grass of the lawn that my brother's neglected to mow for the past three weeks. At the top of the driveway, I stop and glance back.
He's facing the street now, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, leaning against the door. His shoulders are drooping a little, but when he sees me turn around he straightens up, and smiles again. I shake my head. He sighs, heaves himself into a more upright position, and wanders around to the back of the house.
I bang my forehead repeatedly against the mailbox.
"Ugh. Someone hit a raccoon," Laura says. "Wish I hadn't seen that."
"That's why I never look at the road when I'm driving," I tell her, my brain two seconds behind my mouth, as usual.
She shoots me a horrified look over her shoulder, and yet again I have to wonder how I haven't managed to scare her off yet.
---
The sound of hammering drifting up from the basement is overwhelming. I've been up since 8:30, and it's now noon, and I haven't yet had a quiet moment. Mum's left a pile of letters and bills on the kitchen table, waiting to be posted; I scoop them up, fish a few pins out of my pocket and jam them into my hair one-handed, creating a messy but serviceable knot that will keep my neck from melting and oozing down my shirt collar in this lovely 90-degree weather, and head to the front door.
I yank it open, and am confronted by the electrician's apprentice, who has one hand poised to ring the doorbell. We stare at each other for an agonizingly long moment, while I become increasingly aware that my hair is two seconds from tumbling out of its restraints; I'm wearing a sleeveless shirt and short skirt that's rumpled from the morning I spent trying to drown out the sound of construction work with clarinet; my feet are bare, my nose is freckled. He has nice shoulders; his hands are greasy but nicely shaped; his curly dark hair is only a shade messier than my own, and he's smiling lopsidedly down at me from a height of somewhere near six feet.
"Hi!" he proclaims brightly. "We're almost done here, just wanted to let your mum know."
"Er," I say, intelligently. "Sure, I'll tell her."
His smile, if possible, grows more lopsided. He has a sprinkle of freckles across his nose, to match mine; I swallow nervously and notice that his eyes are a very clear blue. "Do you go to school around here?" he asks.
"Um, no," I say. "Ohio. Little tiny place out in the middle of nowhere, out in Ohio. I'm just home for the summer."
"That's awesome," he replies, and then, before I have a chance to blink or sneeze or sidle out around him and make a run for the mailbox, he launches into a detailed description of his oceanography courses at Bryant, and how he's working for his dad over the summer but now that he's done with his freshman year he wants to do something a little more out there; I smile and nod and ask him about field work. He finishes up, smiles again in what can only be described as a hopeful manner, and then pulls this brilliant jewel out of his back pocket: "So... are you going to be around all summer, then, or are you traveling, or...?"
He's the same age as Anna and Abigail. I bite my lip. "Actually," I say slowly, "Actually, I'm spending the summer researching the mating habits of the yellow-bellied warbling clamsucker. In Mongolia. With my boyfriend. We're leaving next week." I slip past him, shut the door firmly behind me, and begin wading through the ankle-deep grass of the lawn that my brother's neglected to mow for the past three weeks. At the top of the driveway, I stop and glance back.
He's facing the street now, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, leaning against the door. His shoulders are drooping a little, but when he sees me turn around he straightens up, and smiles again. I shake my head. He sighs, heaves himself into a more upright position, and wanders around to the back of the house.
I bang my forehead repeatedly against the mailbox.