“Depends on who I’m talking to,” she replies, giving me a once over. “So, can I smoke a barrel?”
I take a seat on a rogue barrel that appears to out of place from whoever worked last night. “We don’t smoke barrels. We char them, but I’m happy to let you push the button if you’re that intrigued.”
Journey narrows her eyes and pinches at her bottom lip. “I want to see how it works,” she says.
I stand up from the barrel and walk toward the back end of the warehouse where we keep the flame retardant suits, and the rubber boots and gloves.
“It isn’t a pretty job, just so you’re aware,” I say.
“I’m not afraid to get dirty.” I’m getting the odd feeling she came here with other intentions besides watching me char barrels. I’d like to tell her about the dream I had last night, but I don’t want to ruin whatever is happening right now. Maybe my dream was a foreshadowing of things to come. I’ll go with it.
I grab a pair of coveralls and toss them over to her, then nudge over a pair of boots and grab a pair of gloves. She hesitates after catching the items like she didn’t know I was serious when I told her this isn’t a pretty job.
“If all you do is press a button, what’s with the getup?” she asks.
“You’ll see after you press the button.”
Journey unzips her knee-high boots and places them down against the wall. She hangs up her jacket next. I don’t think I realized how small she is until now. She was wearing a sweatshirt the night of the bake sale, and a loose coat the other day while snapping photos at The Bourbon House.
Her sleeves inch up above her wrists as she shakes out the coveralls. Her wrists are the size of my thumb. I don’t remember her being so frail looking back when we were kids. She was always slim, but not like she is now. Not to mention the fact that we’re in our thirties and a slim physique is hard to hold on to as the years go by. At least for me it is. The gym and a healthy-ish diet might be the death of my sanity, but I refuse to give into age.
I’m surprised when Journey pulls up the coveralls and steps into the boots. Everything is huge on her, which is adorable, but she rolls the sleeves and cuffs the pant legs before me a look like I’m slowing her down.
I throw on my usual uniform, kick off my boots and trade them for the rubber ones. “Ready?”
“I’ve waited my entire life to light something on fire. Let’s do this,” she says.
She has way too much enthusiasm for Journey and for charring a barrel.
“What are you up to?” I ask as I lead the way toward the charring area of the warehouse.
“What do you mean?” she questions.
“Well, you made it quite clear you weren’t interested in me, but now you’re sending me mixed signals, which leads me to the same question again; what are you up to?”
Journey continues walking alongside me without offering an answer right away. What feels like an entire minute later, she responds with, “I never said I wasn’t interested in you. I only made it clear I wasn’t a fan of your beard or going out for dinner.”
I digest her words, trying to understand what’s going through her head. “So, you don’t like beards or dinner. Is this a puzzle I’m supposed to put together?”
“I prefer to be with people in their natural habitat,” she says.
“You make it sound like I’m a bear you’d like to photograph in the mountains.”
“Are you?” she responds.
“A bear?” I twist around, continuing to walk backward while talking to her.
“Does the word, bear, have a double entendre?”
“I’m not sure,” she says.
“Do you want to photograph me in the mountains, Journey?”
“I’m not sure,” she says again.
“What are you sure about?”
“I want to char a barrel.”
