The Flowers by Dagoberto Gilb Page B

“with it” people and, curtains always closed, they were either at work or closed up in there watching or listening to a complicated music system and a big television connected to it—I saw the TV one time because I passed by when their front door was open. If they were home, you could hear one or the other. Soyeah, really I already knew who the magazine belonged to when I was bagging it. It was that I was supposed to take out the pile of throwaway ads no one ever wanted that the mailman put there for everyone. And the magazine in the wrapper could look like trash, because of that brown wrapper. That’s what I would’ve said if someone saw me take it. That I threw it away. Both the twins were so impressed with my story they could barely shake their heads. Like doing shit like this was so dangerous. They both thought what I did was way fucking wild.
    I was taking off the screens and cleaning them with a stiff brush and putting them back. It was the latest job Cloyd said I should do. So far it was easy, even on the second floor, because they were at eye level, but I hadn’t been to the backside of the building yet. I would have to get those screens high up from a ladder. It was the thing I was asked to do this week. Cloyd was even saying—though not exactly, I admit it—that maybe I’d be paid something when I got it all done. I wanted him to, but the thing was it wasn’t about money for me. Or only. He didn’t have to know I didn’t mind doing it anyways.
    â€œHey, cutie boy! You trying to sneak in on me while I’m in the shower?”
    â€œOh, sorry,” I said.
    Cindy was standing there with a towel wrapped around her, her hair and shoulders dripping wet. I was brushing the screen of #3 from her window. She’d pulled back her curtains to talk to me; then she drew them wider with the cord. The glass pane was already slid all the way open. She was smiling a lot.
    The towel wrapped around her was short and her thighs, which I could see a lot of, were still drippy wet too, but I was too uncomfortable to look too long. I took the screen, which had been leaning against the stucco wall, into my free hand, and pulled it up next to me.

    â€œI’m probably supposed to tell you before I take the screen off. It’s that I’m cleaning them.” I showed her the brush in my other hand.
    â€œI see that now. I was hoping you were just going to come in and say hi to me.”
    I laughed kind of a nervous ha-ha-ha.
    â€œDo you want a coke?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œThen you have to come in,” she said, turning away from the window and opening the door.
    She walked toward her kitchen. I watched her moving away, shower water dribbling down her legs, and then go into the refrigerator and bend down some and get me a soda. I was still standing outside, the screen in one hand and the brush in the other.
    â€œYou can come inside and you can even sit down,” she said. Then she smiled sexy at me again. She popped the can for me and put it on the built-in breakfast counter. “I’m gonna go dry off and put something on.”
    I went over to where she left the coke. She didn’t shut the bedroom door all the way, and from where I was I could see where she was. I didn’t think I should let myself find out more, and I didn’t either.
    â€œGo sit down and make yourself at home,” she said from the bedroom.
    The couch was this old one, both too saggy and too hard at the same time. I might not have noticed that if I hadn’t been living in Cloyd’s. His furniture felt brand new, even when it wasn’t. Maybe old enough but never sat on. The cushions were hard in some better way. Our old furniture at home was about halfway between his and hers. Which meant her stuff was really gacho, really raggy and stained. I sat on the front edge of the couch and sipped.

    She came out barefoot, in shorts with a drawstring and a white blouse.