“Acting like you're difficult, short-sighted, hard to be around…”
“Uh, have you looked at yourself?” she blurted out in disbelief. “I’ve never seen anyone as stuck-up, asinine, nit-picky…”
“Oh, do go on…” he said drolly, interrupting her.
“Or ate up with their stupid lawn as much as you are!” she finished with a yell at him, flinging her hand sideways and narrowly missing his jar of pomade on the counter and his toothbrush. “You’re crazy, you know that? I saw you not three months ago, out there on your hands and knees with a pair of scissors to cut a few blades of grass.”
“There was a yard contest going on…” he protested, but his face was flushing with embarrassment at the thought of how stupid he probably looked.
“You complain when people let their dogs go to the bathroom in your yard…”
“They’re supposed to pick it up!”
“You nag me about the stupid crabgrass…”
“Because I’m gonna have to treat my yard to keep it from invading my blue fescue…”
“And the rest of us normal folks are just happy that the green stuff actually sprouted in this oppressive heat,” she finished, her cheeks puffing as her chest heaved with anger… and frankly, this side of her took him by surprise. “You are so obsessed with your stupid lawn, ya’ big Douche-Wanker – that you don’t even realize how pathetic and frustrating that is!”
“It’s all I have!” he screamed at her, finally reaching his limit as he exploded. They were both standing there in bathrobes, glaring at each other, with the steady, constant drip from her bathrobe in the distance and his boxers onto his feet where he stood in a puddle. It took him a moment to realize what he’d admitted aloud, and it clicked the second she drew back, stunned.
“What?” she whispered in confusion, looking unsure suddenly, as if someone had just told her that up was actually down. “What did you say?”
“Nothing,” he hissed and shoved past her, stomping off toward the kitchen and ignoring his wet boxers. Embarrassment clawed at him as he realized just how pathetic and lonely he was – and now this infernal woman that he’d publicly tied himself to knew it.
And was following him.
He could hear her feet padding on the floor behind him – and whirled around, ready to confront her.
“Does that make you happy? Huh? Does it?” he began – and then let out an ‘Ooof’ as she ran smack into him, bouncing off his chest. He grabbed her arm to steady her as she reached for the countertop. That seemed to deflate him, realizing he’d almost knocked her down… a girl.
“Look,” he said with a heavy sigh, releasing her arm. “My family lives a few hours away. I play baseball, sure, but it’s very solitary sometimes because I can’t just run to the grocery store or go hang out at the coffee shop without people hunting me down. I have my house that gives me privacy – and my lawn… plus it makes me feel good to make the house presentable.”
“It’s a freaking palace,” she uttered under her breath, staring at him like he’d grown a second head… and he knew it.
“No, it’s not,” he replied simply, moving to make a pot of coffee for them. “It’s just when you have nothing but workingout, games, spending time doing drills, or listening to a bunch of drivel on television… It’s more peaceful weeding my flowerbeds or cleaning grout.”
“Do you even hear yourself?”
“Yeah, I do – and I know,” he muttered in such a disparaging voice, full of shame and awareness. “Look, I asked for this life, strived to get to this point, and everyone makes sacrifices.”
“You hardly look like you’re living in a ‘sacrifice’,” she chuckled in disbelief, looking around with wide-eyed amazement at his home. He’d worked hard on this place, wanting it to be a haven for himself, or the one he loved, and somewhere within him, he knew that neither would ever happen – a haven or a soulmate.
“Then you aren't looking hard enough,” he replied, then hesitated. “Do you want coffee or not?”
Her brown eyes were staring at him with an awareness that was very uncomfortable – almost unbearable. He didn’t want to think of her as somewhat pretty in one moment and then be filled with anger at her obvious pity in another.
He couldn’t stand what he saw in her eyes – and reacted.
Badly.
“Actually, just go home,” he spat defensively. “I’ll bring that overgrown dish towel you called a robe in a little bit.”
“You just can’t do it – can you?” she muttered, but her eyes were shiny, almost like she was ready to cry. “You don’t have a nice bone in your body – do you? I came over to try and have a civil conversation, but no – you immediately reverted to your original form – a terrible douche wanker.”
“Quit calling me that!”
“Quitbeingthat!”
