Ever Her Thought

The water poured down as they say by the buckets. Thunder clapped dully far off, jammed between heavy gray clouds and the wet. She had just rolled up and rushed through the back door one after another the mats and blankets she had left out on the deck to freshen, as her vacuum was now dead. She could only hope that the latest storm wouldn’t blow more fuses, let alone fry the washer, or God help her, the cold storage.

With the ac unplugged she went to the corner table and sat for the countdown of the forecast temperature drop. She ate a couple of wraps assembled from scraps of cold cuts and lettuce blanketed by mustard. The whole wheat was a nod to recent health concerns, but cost more than the usual. Cold water stood as her preferred beverage. As her ears attuned to the plops and splashes on the deck and rooftop she took steady gulps, as though a planned human echo.

Truth to tell, she would not have chosen to be alone that p.m., or for that matter many an hour. But then, her hours were set by the clock of work and chance, not ever her own yen. She felt glad, or at least calmed, just to have four walls and some space to breathe, no matter the stormy weather.

After a long spell the downpour relented. She opened a paperback novel, one of her old treasures often returned to but that she hadn’t touched for several months. Her cramped notes that rode around the author’s always steady words seemed almost someone else’s. Between the responses and amendments, had her hand been more steady, or less, then?

She stared at the hands that lay next to the empty tumbler. Slender enough yet, but work and chores had changed the surface. There were cracks and scars. Just as the bangs and strands around her face had dulled from a strawberry sheen (she knew) over the years. When she bothered to brush up and go out to a cafe or even a bar, which had now become seldom, she felt startled when she drew a male gaze.

But even less often would she care. The men she had known… Men were cats, not dogs, she judged, whose loyalty seemed unsteady, or stormy, as the weather. They were mostly creatures of the dark, of alleys and secret passageways, who kept unknown roosts.

She paged through the well-worn book at a casual pace, reassured by the yellowed pages and the same old story. When she felt she could sleep some she pushed away from the corner, splashed her face at the faucet, and eased over onto the blank sheets of her low-slung bed.

She awoke to the return of warm summery rays at the panes. The storm had largely cleared the sky, as though on purpose. She rubbed her eyes, then ran up all the shades for a full salute. The very modest garden lacked color, but shone now. She had made efforts to foster greenness. The grass and hedges were not much work, , but the weeds were constant and so must be her treatments by gloved hands and spade. She gardened solely on weekends, weather agreeable, between grocery hops and laundry duty.

At work there was usually hell to pay on Tuesdays, when the major orders came up and the managers checked accounts. Ron and Don (made her laugh, those names–she secretly referred to them as Ron Don Don, or the Wontons, to her closest workmates) got more stern the more busy the day, and would lose tempers at any backlog. Power, even the least or most petty example, she thought, caused such stress for all those touched on. But, of course, her paycheck was not petty. And just to make do anywhere was probably stressful, she was aware.

Random afternoons one buyer she tended to trust most came by to oversee transfer of the larger crates. Tony seemed a natural, not loud or pushy, not prone to backslaps–more gentleman than good old boy. He showed some respect, or close enough. She was attracted by Tony’s manners and also the steady energy he gave the work. She was glad he wasn’t named Tom or Steve or Harry; she’d had some trouble from men of those names, beyond Ron and Don.

Tony’s clothes looked great today: forest polo over tan pants. The deep green set off round puppy dog eyes, and the pants were of a cut that well matched the man’s healthful frame. She suddenly blushed to herself at her full assessment– guessed and hoped that Tony hadn’t seen.

Once the crates were loaded came coffee break. As usual she headed for the snack nook and sat down at the common table. Around her the day crew stood and chatted, a couple of them on their cells. Tony and another buyer lounged by the counter; she watched them share a few words and a chuckle. Then Tony looked her way and slowly walked over.

“Hey, you.”

She would keep to the pace. “Hey, you.”

“How’s the weather lately, your way?”

“At home? At work? Cloudy normal.”

“Yeah. Would expect so, here. …What about at home?” That was a somewhat new tack.

“About what you’d expect.” She thought to expound. “Grass looks pretty good, fresh, thanks to the downpour. Bushes and roof A-ok.” Her hand felt attached to the mug.

“Ah. Who takes care of those?”

“The yard, me, mostly. The roof and any damage–that’s for the landlord. But, so far, July has been a good month.”

“Your car?” He was somehow aware of her recent troubles. But, of course, she had been late for work.

“So far so good, for now.”

“Hard to get by when your transport goes kaput.”

She wondered for a moment exactly what he meant by that, as the puppy eyes shone some. She brought the mug up for extra cover.

“No bus. And a schedule to keep to. …Do you always manage? So hard to be alone, even more so these days.”

The truth was, she told herself, she often barely managed. But the larger truth was that other people could be helpful, or not; or worse.

The break drew to a close. Ron Don Don would soon herd the flock back to the shelves and docks. She would go back to her own work. Tony would leave for wherever he went.

She eyed Tony carefully. “A good dog could be great.”