But honest to God, I’d rather he’d done that without that Post-it note because…what the hell was he thinking?
Thanks.
Was he serious?
“What an ass,” I muttered as I put the skillet on the draining board.
I dried my hands.Reached to the lotion a local artist Ida made (so luscious, I stocked it at my store).I rubbed it into my hands, and that done, I went to my denim jacket that I’d thrown over the back of the couch last night.
I shrugged it on, wound the fluffy, soft, thick, loose-knit beige winter scarf with the long fringe around and around my neck.I pulled my hair out from under it, slung on my crossbody and headed to the door.
I was digging my keys out of my bag so I could lock the door behind me when I stepped out on my knot-woven welcome mat and heard an odd crunch under my boot.
I looked down to see a folded piece of paper there, and I was lucky I didn’t step on the big rock that was holding it down on one side.
My heart thumped as I stepped back and bent to grab the paper.
Another note from my Post-it Lover?
One that said something like,Just kidding with that Post-it.Wanna meet for a drink tonight?
It was trifold, and my idiot heart thumped yet again as I opened it.
Then I stood still and stared at the words on the page.
The Lord knows the sins of the Jezebel.And we do too.
Abruptly, I came unstuck, retreated into my cabin, slammed the door and locked it.
Breathing heavily, I again stared at the page, reading the handwritten words again and again.
It took a second to realize my hand was shaking.
Violently.
“Okay, calm your shit, calm your shit,” I chanted, shifting from staring to scrutinizing.
The first thing I noticed was, although my Post-it Lover only scrawled six letters, this was not at all the same handwriting.
That was good.
All else was bad.
“Who is ‘we?’”I asked a piece of paper that couldn’t answer me.
I took several steps to the side, looking over the glorious, vintage writing desk I’d bought for fifty dollars, spent an entire week painstakingly restoring and set in front of the window, to the sun shining in the open space in front of my cabin.
Nothing was there but the dirt and boulders, my workshop off to the side, my truck parked out front, all of this ringed heavily with pines.
It wasn’t exactly a surprise when the anger started simmering.
What was a surprise was how fast and violently it boiled over.
I folded the paper, carefully tucked it in my crossbody, walked to the door, unlocked it, opened it, stepped out, slammed it, relocked and stomped to my truck.
“No,” I muttered after I got in and also slammed my truck door so hard, the whole vehicle shook.“Hell no,” I said as I jammed my key into the ignition and turned it.“This shit isn’t going to happen to me.”
I put the truck in reverse, curved out, shoved the clutch in first, then peeled out.
