He takes the bucket from me and stares at it for a long moment, doesn’t move.
I sigh. “Here.” I go over to the bench and find some coveralls for him. I go outside and cut on the hose, walk the bike to the front so the water goes in the drain, and he still looks lost.
So, I get him to put the coveralls on, to protect his clothes. They’re just long enough for his height, but hang around his middle. I show him how to use the hose on the wheels but to be careful of the leather seat. I show him how to polish the chrome and remove any build up with the edge of a penny. I tell him to rub wax on the seat until it’s soft as silk and shining like new. And, honestly, I could’ve just done it all myself from how much time I had to spend explaining.
And, honestly, watching his interest pique, watching his eyes the color of rolling lush pastures settle on mine, watching him do something he’s clearly never done before…honestly? I don’t know if I would have wanted it any other way.
It’s after one and I’m hungry.
The sun has mostly dried the tires on the Triumph, but he’s wiping them down anyway, carefully, looking through water stains on his glasses.
The King Tut Drive-In is just up the street. I grab the keys for the Impala, tell him to come on and jump in. I had to remove the convertible top to fix part of the windshield. The ass was driving drunk and plowed right through some farmer’s garden. A flowerpot hit the windshield. That’s the story he gave me anyway.
Paul strips off the coveralls and opens the door. “Is this yours?”
“Nope.”
I start the engine, and I take us up the street. The teeny-bopper blonde on skates grins and giggles at us more than necessary, and I shift my gaze to see how Paul reacts. I hate to admit I’m hopeful when he doesn’t seem to notice her and says, “I’d like some french fries and a Coke, please.”
I shake my head at myself. Why should there be any hope for me at all?
Blondie brings us our food and we eat in silence for a bit. About two cars over are some kids turning up “The Stroll” on their crappy Chrysler. They get out and split into two lines right there in the parking lot, car hops skating around them, laughing. It’s strange to see something like that, know it was never a scene from your own life, and yet miss it anyway.
Paul wipes his fingers on a napkin and looks over at me. “What’s your name?”
“Asher Douglas,” I say. He just looks at me, and I glance over with a smirk. “Or just Asher. Family or not.”
“Asher,” he repeats.
“Yep.” I take a sip of my soda. “How old are you?”
He hesitates, sits up straighter. “Twenty.”
I stare at him, wait for it.
Then he slumps. “Well, I will be. In December.” He pauses. “You?”
“Not twenty.”
He peers at me curiously through the water stains still on his glasses. “Twenty…five?”
I point upward with my thumb.
“Twenty-six?”
Up more.
“Twenty-seven?”
I take a long drink of Coke, and glance over at him. “Does it matter?”
Something heavy and breathing forms between us as we look at each other for a few seconds. It could be what we all are before we come into this world kicking and screaming, heavy breaths in repose, a tableau.
His eyes briefly dart to my lips, then back up.
“No,” he says finally, shaking his head. “No, of course not.” He looks down at his hands. “Why would it matter?”
That’s a good question. The thoughts he’s already provoking within me are just leading toward disaster. And someone my age should know better. You never give yourself over, you never give yourself up. It’s best to wake up alone. Your freedom comes first. Always.
