propped on knees, chin propped on hands. “What are you doing without a shirt on?” Anna said, her voice strange to her own ears.
The boy stood up, sinewy and muscular at once, strong and pale and loose, his veins cutting languidly down the length of his long arms, a tattooed dragon brooding darkly over one shoulder.
“Let’s go,” she said. “Let’s get that shirt back on.”
He slid a lazy hand into the pocket of his jeans. “Why?”
“What do you mean, why? You’re on my property. You’re not wearing a shirt. People wear shirts when they are on my property. People wear shirts in general when they are in public.”
The boy spread his arms to encompass his surroundings. “You call this public? It’s fenced.”
“I’m not about to debate public and private with you. Put that shirt back on.”
Lips compressed around a little smile, the boy picked up a balled shirt off the ground, snapped it open, and pulled it on as Anna began to shout, “Esperanza? Eva?”
“No one’s home,” the boy said, and before Anna could process the anomaly, he reached for the grocery bag.
“Let me give you a hand.”
“What hand? Get off my porch.”
“Jesus Christ. What are you so scared of?”
“Who’s scared? I’m not scared. Get off my porch.”
“I’m not getting off your fucking porch!”
Anna pulled out her house keys and dangled them in the air.
“I’m going to go inside. As a favor to your father, I’m going to put these things in the fridge and count to ten before I call the cops.”
She had the phone in one hand, she had her thumb on the number nine, she had her line ready. There is a young intruder on my property, he’s unarmed and seemingly well-intentioned but refuses to leave . She had the first stirrings of melancholy already, the cold crash of chemicals after a sudden spike. She had cold skin and a cold heart, both feet in the grave and only going through the motions, when the boy, her neighbor’s son, stepped coolly inside and flowed nearly undetected through time and circumstance, gliding as if on wheels across the living room to the window where she stood, phone in hand, calling the police.
“I’ll take that,” he said, sliding the phone out of her hand.
Chapter Five
L uckily, there was the pinky promise.
“What’s a pinky promise?” the boy asked.
“An inviolable oath.”
“What inviolable oath?”
“You can’t come over.”
“I can’t?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
So they arranged to meet at his house, a three-bedroom place at the opposite end of town. He opened the door and Anna stepped into chaos so dark and primitive she started taking pictures.
“Why are you taking pictures?” asked the roommate, a tall, willowy specimen with erratic facial hair and no pigmentation. Anna aimed her phone at a pile of dishes by the sink. The boy came out of the shower.
“She’s taking pictures,” the roommate said. Anna captured a stratum of toothpaste around the bathroom sink.
“Jack, she’s taking pictures.”
“Why are you taking pictures?”
Balanced on one arm of the couch, Anna shot the mother of all spiderwebs.
“Dude, I’m not sure I want her around, taking pictures like this.”
“Put that thing away,” the boy said, so she stepped down and took one last picture of him and his dragon, both still wet from the shower.
They were still in bed when she asked him why he’d dropped out of college. The boy flipped onto his back.
“I’d had enough. Psychology 101? Please. We’re running out of potable water.”
“So you aim to dig wells?”
“I don’t aim to dig wells, no. I aim to ride my bike, I aim to ski, I aim to surf, I aim to paraglide. I aim to live. That’s what I aim to do: live .”
“What happens when we run out of water?”
“I trade my bike for a shovel and the rest for a gun.”
For a second Anna was tempted to instruct the young man in the way things used to be, to lay out before his astonished eyes the entirely
The boy stood up, sinewy and muscular at once, strong and pale and loose, his veins cutting languidly down the length of his long arms, a tattooed dragon brooding darkly over one shoulder.
“Let’s go,” she said. “Let’s get that shirt back on.”
He slid a lazy hand into the pocket of his jeans. “Why?”
“What do you mean, why? You’re on my property. You’re not wearing a shirt. People wear shirts when they are on my property. People wear shirts in general when they are in public.”
The boy spread his arms to encompass his surroundings. “You call this public? It’s fenced.”
“I’m not about to debate public and private with you. Put that shirt back on.”
Lips compressed around a little smile, the boy picked up a balled shirt off the ground, snapped it open, and pulled it on as Anna began to shout, “Esperanza? Eva?”
“No one’s home,” the boy said, and before Anna could process the anomaly, he reached for the grocery bag.
“Let me give you a hand.”
“What hand? Get off my porch.”
“Jesus Christ. What are you so scared of?”
“Who’s scared? I’m not scared. Get off my porch.”
“I’m not getting off your fucking porch!”
Anna pulled out her house keys and dangled them in the air.
“I’m going to go inside. As a favor to your father, I’m going to put these things in the fridge and count to ten before I call the cops.”
She had the phone in one hand, she had her thumb on the number nine, she had her line ready. There is a young intruder on my property, he’s unarmed and seemingly well-intentioned but refuses to leave . She had the first stirrings of melancholy already, the cold crash of chemicals after a sudden spike. She had cold skin and a cold heart, both feet in the grave and only going through the motions, when the boy, her neighbor’s son, stepped coolly inside and flowed nearly undetected through time and circumstance, gliding as if on wheels across the living room to the window where she stood, phone in hand, calling the police.
“I’ll take that,” he said, sliding the phone out of her hand.
Chapter Five
L uckily, there was the pinky promise.
“What’s a pinky promise?” the boy asked.
“An inviolable oath.”
“What inviolable oath?”
“You can’t come over.”
“I can’t?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
So they arranged to meet at his house, a three-bedroom place at the opposite end of town. He opened the door and Anna stepped into chaos so dark and primitive she started taking pictures.
“Why are you taking pictures?” asked the roommate, a tall, willowy specimen with erratic facial hair and no pigmentation. Anna aimed her phone at a pile of dishes by the sink. The boy came out of the shower.
“She’s taking pictures,” the roommate said. Anna captured a stratum of toothpaste around the bathroom sink.
“Jack, she’s taking pictures.”
“Why are you taking pictures?”
Balanced on one arm of the couch, Anna shot the mother of all spiderwebs.
“Dude, I’m not sure I want her around, taking pictures like this.”
“Put that thing away,” the boy said, so she stepped down and took one last picture of him and his dragon, both still wet from the shower.
They were still in bed when she asked him why he’d dropped out of college. The boy flipped onto his back.
“I’d had enough. Psychology 101? Please. We’re running out of potable water.”
“So you aim to dig wells?”
“I don’t aim to dig wells, no. I aim to ride my bike, I aim to ski, I aim to surf, I aim to paraglide. I aim to live. That’s what I aim to do: live .”
“What happens when we run out of water?”
“I trade my bike for a shovel and the rest for a gun.”
For a second Anna was tempted to instruct the young man in the way things used to be, to lay out before his astonished eyes the entirely
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