“Yeah.”
“Well,” he picks some grass off his shirt, “I have breakfast with my aunt. I clean it up for her after she leaves. Sometimes I go back to sleep. Sometimes I watch the soaps even though they’re dumb.” He glances over at me. “Bored yet?”
“Nah.”
He lies back down, flat. “I try to keep up with things for her, you know, like the dishes. Make the beds. It’s the least I can do, I guess.” He glances over at me again. “Now you’rereallybored.”
I take a drag, exhale. “Sounds like it’s good you’re there for her.”
He chews on his lip. “I don’t really ever think about it that way. She took me in. And she can make me leave anytime she wants.”
“She wouldn’t do that.”
He shrugs and there’s that pain between us again. That tender spot being pressed, sore and bruised. A guy his age couldn’t possibly be content staying with his old maid aunt for long. I know I wouldn’t. Sooner or later, he’s going to itch and the urge to scratch will become unbearable. And what then?
This was a stupid thing to do.
And you know what’s really stupid? When I notice he’s got grass in his hair, I lean over to brush it away, unthinking. I don’t even look around to make sure. And he grabs my hand, also unthinking, slides his fingers through mine.
And then we both hear it, just behind us. A bang and then a “Hello?”
We drop each other’s hands like hot potatoes, turning and scooting far apart. There’s a man standing in the doorway of the old store in a gray hat that matches his tie. For a full five seconds, I think he might be an angry ghost, livid that we piled up all his bottle caps and fixed his wooden squirrel. And then he swipes his arm across the sweat on his forehead and takes one step out of the doorway, as real and living as me and Paul.
He looks from me to Paul and Paul to me, frowning. “Say there. This is private property, don’t you see?” He points to a sign on the outside that I am seeing for the first time. His voice is overly stern. “Go on now.” He waves us away. “Off you go.”
I get up first, brushing grass from my pants, and offer an apology. I can’t look the man in the eye, though. He’s staring at us strangely, shifting his eyes to Paul, then over to me, his eyes narrowing just slightly. Paul apologizes too, but it’s mumbled. I don’t know if the guy even heard. It doesn’t seem so. He has his hands on his hips now, waiting.
My stomach aches and my hands get clammy as the man watches us walk over to my bike and get on. He’s making sure we leave. And he’s making sure of something else.
When Paul gets on, he doesn’t sit so close to me. He grasps the bar behind him instead of me and I take off. Even down the street, I can feel that man’s narrowed gaze. And it’s heavy, rock heavy, and I feel it in my stomach and on my shoulders, like a cross to bear. I don’t feel Paul’s hands on my hips or his arms around me. It’s like he’s gone, and I turn my head to the side, just briefly, to catch him in my periphery and make sure I didn’t lose him.
I pull up to my apartment building and Paul gets off. I get off. There are feet between us instead of inches. His jaw is working, teeth scraping his lower lip. I take a look around us, the quiet little street, and see what I usually see: cars, trees, houses, and the sun going down.
“We’re all right,” I say, even though I don’t believe it.
He nods.
“But maybe, um….” I look across the street and see some kids with hula hoops. “Maybe you should go home.”
He nods again.
I catch his eyes and the feet between us feel like miles.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I say to reassure him.
He looks left then right, and I’m afraid he’s going to do something far too risky right now, but he opens his mouth like he’s going to say something. He doesn’t, though. He turns away, mouth still open, and goes through his aunt’s gate and out of my sight.
I keep forgetting what I’m doing.
I go back over the engine again, and it’s like I’ve forgotten everything I’ve ever learned. I’ve changed a million spark plugs. Okay, maybe only a couple hundred. But still.
After fumbling my way around the engine of the Rolls Royce some more, I give up and attempt some body work, but even that fails.
Break time, it is.
I light a cigarette and stand just inside the garage door, squinting at the hot midday sun. I can’t believe it’s this late in the day already. I don’t feel as if I’ve done shit. I feel dazed. Almost as if someone gave me a tonic. My thoughts are jumbled and almost all of them have a thread I can trace right back to Paul, back to everything, and so I just follow it until I’m useless, daydreaming and anxious, and before I know it, I’ve polished the same fucking hubcap seventeen times.
I scrub a hand over my face.
