his sitting in her driveway; there would be nothing inconspicuous about that. Mostly likely, he would have driven around the block. How many times, though? She could see his truck slowly creeping past - once... and again... - speeding up and then coasting around the block so as to arrive at exactly the right moment. Yes, that’s how he did it; yes, yes…
Ashleigh composed herself and answered the door. Her heart skipped... or was it twisting? She didn't have time to think about the sensation.
“Hi...”
“Hi...”
She could feel heat rush up from within and fill her face, imbuing it with a healthy and yet involuntary glow. How many years had she tried to control that and never could! If she could eradicate involuntary reactions like that, she would. Too bad there wasn't a pill for it – and, of course, there is; but that was going too far. She'd just have to put up with it.
His hands were full – he lifted the bags indicating he could not open the door and she opened it, s queezing past him onto her porch before following him.
He smelled good - he was using an aftershave she hadn't smelled before. Patrick was not a handsome man – a little small of frame and plain featured for her tastes - but he was physically fit with no gut on him like many of the couch-potato men she knew. He loved to hike and kayak. His hair was cropped short in a military style. He was deeply tanned and his blue eyes were like lights against his face. She had also felt his warmth as he brushed past. With only one word spoken, she could feel the warmth in him, the greeting warmth. He sometimes radiated like that.
But , of course, that made no sense. It was delusional on her part: a trick of her mind. People don't radiate. They speak and converse and gesture but they don't literally radiate. What a silly fool she was; she would have to watch that!
She took the bags and ran to the kitchen to place them in the warmer. It was, indeed, delusional on her part. She was imagining something that cannot be real. It was like trying to read someone’s mind, or believing that someone could project his or her thoughts toward another person: total nonsense. He was probably thinking about just about anything instead of radiating – like the hockey game he might be missing tonight – it was Saturday – or some detail of his business; the cold weather – not good for the trees; or any random thought that might be passing through his mind. If she thought he was radiating it was only because she herself thought so. Anyway, he had not kissed her... The timing had not been right.
“So what is your calling,” she had once asked him.
Patrick loved trees.
“I'm an Arborist – do you know what that is?”
“Of course I know what that is!” she had snapped back.
“I'm only saying because you looked puzzled.”
“I'm not puzzled; I've just never met an Arborist before!”
When they walked together, he would stop and point out one type of tree or another, sometimes reaching for a leaf, often feeling the texture between his fingers but never breaking it off.
“This is a Norway Maple,” he'd announce.
“I know that.”
He'd stop again: “Pin Oak.”
“I can never tell the different oaks – too many of them. What did you say that one was again?”
“It's a Pin.”
“Got it.”
Truth is, once she realized his profession, she'd checked out The Audubon Field Guide to North American Trees and carefully studied it before going to bed just so she could hope to keep up with him as he pointed out yet another variety.
“Ever seen a Douglas Fir?”
“Yes.”
“Ever stand beneath one?”
“No... I don't think so.”
“It reaches up, way up. It's one of the tallest trees in North America . It seems to hold up the sky.” He watched her carefully when said this. Patrick had a spiritual side to him and she was just beginning to find out how deep it went. He'd added, “When you stand in a forest made up of such trees you feel
Ashleigh composed herself and answered the door. Her heart skipped... or was it twisting? She didn't have time to think about the sensation.
“Hi...”
“Hi...”
She could feel heat rush up from within and fill her face, imbuing it with a healthy and yet involuntary glow. How many years had she tried to control that and never could! If she could eradicate involuntary reactions like that, she would. Too bad there wasn't a pill for it – and, of course, there is; but that was going too far. She'd just have to put up with it.
His hands were full – he lifted the bags indicating he could not open the door and she opened it, s queezing past him onto her porch before following him.
He smelled good - he was using an aftershave she hadn't smelled before. Patrick was not a handsome man – a little small of frame and plain featured for her tastes - but he was physically fit with no gut on him like many of the couch-potato men she knew. He loved to hike and kayak. His hair was cropped short in a military style. He was deeply tanned and his blue eyes were like lights against his face. She had also felt his warmth as he brushed past. With only one word spoken, she could feel the warmth in him, the greeting warmth. He sometimes radiated like that.
But , of course, that made no sense. It was delusional on her part: a trick of her mind. People don't radiate. They speak and converse and gesture but they don't literally radiate. What a silly fool she was; she would have to watch that!
She took the bags and ran to the kitchen to place them in the warmer. It was, indeed, delusional on her part. She was imagining something that cannot be real. It was like trying to read someone’s mind, or believing that someone could project his or her thoughts toward another person: total nonsense. He was probably thinking about just about anything instead of radiating – like the hockey game he might be missing tonight – it was Saturday – or some detail of his business; the cold weather – not good for the trees; or any random thought that might be passing through his mind. If she thought he was radiating it was only because she herself thought so. Anyway, he had not kissed her... The timing had not been right.
“So what is your calling,” she had once asked him.
Patrick loved trees.
“I'm an Arborist – do you know what that is?”
“Of course I know what that is!” she had snapped back.
“I'm only saying because you looked puzzled.”
“I'm not puzzled; I've just never met an Arborist before!”
When they walked together, he would stop and point out one type of tree or another, sometimes reaching for a leaf, often feeling the texture between his fingers but never breaking it off.
“This is a Norway Maple,” he'd announce.
“I know that.”
He'd stop again: “Pin Oak.”
“I can never tell the different oaks – too many of them. What did you say that one was again?”
“It's a Pin.”
“Got it.”
Truth is, once she realized his profession, she'd checked out The Audubon Field Guide to North American Trees and carefully studied it before going to bed just so she could hope to keep up with him as he pointed out yet another variety.
“Ever seen a Douglas Fir?”
“Yes.”
“Ever stand beneath one?”
“No... I don't think so.”
“It reaches up, way up. It's one of the tallest trees in North America . It seems to hold up the sky.” He watched her carefully when said this. Patrick had a spiritual side to him and she was just beginning to find out how deep it went. He'd added, “When you stand in a forest made up of such trees you feel
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