I blink. “What?”
He points. On the cycleway on the other side of the road, a pony clip-clops with its rider, tail swishing like it owns the road. Which, apparently, it does, because it stops, lifts its tail, and?—
“What? No picking it up?” I say, righteous. “Dog owners get fined for that.”
Trent gleefully does a U turn in a way that bubbles under my ribs.
“We’re in luck today!”
Before I can process what he means by “luck”, he noses into a park, leaps out of his seat, and is halfway around with a black rubbish bag and a small spade like a man on a mission.
“You can’t be serious,” I call out the window.
“Black gold,” he says, and my breath catches. Dimples. He’s smiling. It didn’t take much to catch, after all. Just some horse dung, apparently. “Hold the bag, please.”
I end up on the cycleway, arms outstretched, the bag gaping and tugging as Trent scoops with brisk competence. A cyclist slows, nicking his head. Not in ‘Thanks’ but in ‘Didn’t you strike it good, mate’. A kid headed to the beach points, grossed out. I swallow my pride and a gust of sea air. Totally feel you, kid.
“This is . . . for Grandpa?” I manage.
“So his potatoes don’t taste like disappointment,” he says, shovelling. “Grandpa used to send me and Ika out to do this after the riding club on Saturdays. Thought we hated it. But we always ended up laughing, so... And it feels good, turning mess into something useful.”
Something loosens behind my ribs.
He nudges the last shovelful in and I twist the bag closed; our fingers brush through thin plastic and I feel it, ridiculous and real. Not the shiver I’d thought I’d ever have over horse poo.
He ties a neat knot. “How’re you doing?”
“Shitty?”
Now he laughs. Laughs!
His eyes skim my face. “Thanks.”
The thanks is softer, like he’s saying thank you for the laugh, not the rest.
We lug the treasure to the tray, he stows the spade, and we climb back in. The front smells like distant pasture. He checks his mirrors; I check his profile. Then we drive back towards the sea.
Wind rocks the truck. The donation bags rustle.
Moana. Tip. Pharmacy.
And back to Grandpa, who lights up at the sight of manure.
salt spray
Lingers long after the wave crashes. Just like the things we don’t say.
Another week of domestic rhythm slips by, measured in Grandpa’s morning grumbles, a daily-maintained studio wardrobe (which refuses to keep order), and the quiet presence of Trent, a fixture at the front desk. I’m still not sure what he actually does on his laptop for that hour or so each day, but whatever it is... it involves very little tapping.
By the end of the second week, I give up any pretence of upright professionalism and finally surrender to the inevitable: a slow slide against the table, arms crossed, cheek pressed against my elbow.
Just five minutes.
Probably.
It’s his fault I need to nap anyway. Sharing a bunk with a sleep-depriving, too-close, way-too-warm presence is brutal.
When I startle awake again, it’s to find said torturer holding a pen at my nose, staring at me.
