Word Count: 316
The man on the other side of the trees is building something I know. There’s the clank-clank of the ladder, the humming buzz of the saw. I smell wood freshly cut.
It’s hot in these last days of summer. He’s working shirtless, I’m sure. His skin must be brown from the sun, shiny with sweat. The lumber is heavy, his muscles must strain with the weight. Perspiration clings to the curled hair of his chest, where it grows landscaped as a V down into his jeans. He’s been laid-off. His wife is at work. And I’m doing my best to sort socks.
I add ice to my last morning coffee. The cup beads up with the chill. I stroke the sides gently, drawing pictures in the condensation with my finger. I take a deep sip of the coffee and lick the rim of the cup.
I’ve finished the laundry, re-pair the socks I’ve somehow mismatched as I put them away in his drawer. My husband is working at a desk somewhere in the city. He’s glassy-eyed from staring at numbers flashed on a monitor screen. He’s most likely into his third cup of coffee, hot though, steaming hot fresh from the pot in the small cafeteria on the first floor of his office. Where he’ll eat lunch. Probably a ham on rye sandwich.
My lunch is a large special salad. With hard boiled eggs cut in. A young thinly sliced cucumber and a mandarin orange pulled into segments, crisp crunchy lettuce and kale. Those cherry tomatoes that pop in my mouth with the slightest pressure of my tongue. And creamy, creamy Caesar dressing, that’s what I like on the top. I take it outside and sit on the deck at the table. In the backyard. I can’t see through the trees but Rod Stewart’s singing his heart out somewhere behind them. That, and the buzz of the saw.
