I laugh. I actually fucking laugh. How does he do that?
Me:Is that how you are in real life too? Walking around in your underwear and kissing available men?
Miles:You know it!
He adds a winky face.
Miles:Anyway, I really better sleep. Work is gonna come too soon. Can we talk later?
Me:Sure. Anytime.
Miles:Awesome, TTYL Jordan.
Me:Sleep well.
When I don’t hear from Miles again, I roll to my stomach and watch the dust mites float around in the air. I really should clean again.
Finally, I force myself to get up, take a shower, and eat a few pieces of peanut-butter toast for breakfast. The whole time I’m thinking about the damn crocheted mice. Miles said they kept his mind busy. Is that what I need? Something to keep my mind busy? It sounds exhausting, learning something new, but I can’t deny I’m intrigued. Lily looked so happy with them.
Clematis bolts across the dining area before jumping into her bed on the windowsill. She’s going to crash into the glass one of these days, but all I can do is hope the panel is strong enough to support her weight.
She curls around her stuffed frog, digging at the head with her paw. That thing is so frayed it’s going to bust apart any second. She really does need some new toys. I could buy some, or… I could stop by the craft store and pick up some supplies? Would I even know what to buy?
Maybe Miles can give me some advice. That thought gives me a reason to smile. I’ll go there soon.
Finally, like wading through quicksand, I drag my ass outside to water my plants. The six new pots I’d collected from Declan sit at the end of the long row in front of my trailer. I need to rehome some—fast. We aren’t supposed to have more than two potted plants here, and I have close to twodozen.
That’s not counting the ones inside.
If management asks, could I blame it on my therapist? It was her idea after all. Two years ago, she’d suggested I get one, sinceplants are proven to improve moods. It took me three months to buy my first plant… and somehow, I added three more a week later. A month after that, I had two dozen. It kept going. And going…
Just how many am I supposed to have before the good feelings kick in?
Gena waves at me from her chair while taking a drag from her joint. I wave back, turning on the spigot. Keeping my back to her, I walk the hose down the long line of pots. Halfway down, I realize I’m still thinking about the mice.
Miles must be on to something.
When I’m done, I wind the hose up and grab two small pots for Gena. She’s so used to me bringing her plants, she doesn’t even ask why. Just gives me a thin, wrinkly smile, the scent of her joint circling around me like an old friend.
“Thank you, Jordan,” she says in her raspy voice. “You’re always so sweet.”
The woman reminds me of a grandmother I never had. Well, minus the weed. Grandmas probably don’t share their stash with their grandkids.
“Of course.”
She holds the joint out. I smile and take a couple of drags before returning it.
“You work today?”
“Yep.”
“Well, have a good day, then. Maybe I’ll come in and see ya.”
She won’t. She avoids busy places just as much as I do.
Finally, I head back inside, grab a drink, and sink into my favorite leather recliner. On instinct, my hand slips into the side pocket, withdrawing the old worn notebook I keep there. I run my hand over the cover, willing my muse to speak. He doesn’t. Bastard.
It’s been months since I’ve heard Charlie’s voice. Even longer since I’ve added a single sentence to his story. A single word. But that doesn’t mean I don’t try. Every day, I hold this notebook hoping inspiration will come, and every day it lingers out of reach. Like it’s hovering just on the other side of the darkness.
