He pulled away abruptly, his hands on my shoulders to keep me back. “Someone’s at the door,” he said.
I reached down between my legs and squeezed his shaft with my hand. “Tell me about it, big boy.”
He snorted. “No, really. Someone’s knocking on your front door.”
A persistent rapping came from the front door.
I climbed off Adrian and went to answer, knowing with certainty from the knock alone that it was my neighbor Mr. Galloway, and he was in distress.
His face was ashen, his glasses crooked on his long, fine nose. He didn’t seem as tall as usual, perhaps because I’d been hanging out with Adrian, or because whatever had him scared had made him hunch.
Mr. Galloway started talking, his words running together in a jumble. After a moment of confusion, I invited him in and got him sitting down on a chair in the living room. I ran to get him a glass of water, and when I came back, Adrian had taken control of the situation and was extracting the story.
In short, Mr. Galloway’s battle with the rat who’d been terrorizing him in his house had reached its climax. Thanks to the cat, and some traps, the rat was cornered under the refrigerator. But victory had come with a cost. The rat was injured, and making horrible noises. My neighbor was beside himself, and tears ran down his cheeks. “I’m not a killer,” he said.
Adrian stood, looking almost as pale as my elderly neighbor. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “That’s the house on this side?” He pointed in the right direction.
We both nodded silently.
Adrian disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, then walked by with a plastic bucket from under the sink. He went out the front door, and Mr. Galloway and I sat waiting in silence. The sun was setting outside, and the room was bathed in a golden light that seemed to cheerful for the occasion.
There was no noise, no screaming or banging from next door.
After eleven minutes and twenty seconds, Adrian returned, his expression solemn.
“Everything’s taken care of,” he said.
I helped Mr. Galloway to his feet and walked him back over to his house while Adrian stayed behind.
Mr. Galloway patted my arm when we reached his front door. “You’re a true friend,” he said.
His tears were gone, but his discomfort remained, hanging in the air between us. Mr. Galloway wasn’t from a generation that was okay with men crying, not that things were incredibly different today.
“I’m sure we’ll laugh about this tomorrow,” I said. “But if you’d prefer, I won’t ever mention it.”
He looked down at his feet. “Thank your boyfriend for me,” he said, and he quietly slipped inside his house and closed the door.
As I walked back over to my house and up the steps, I realized my body was trembling, even though the late summer sun was just setting now, the air warm and fragrant with the scent of the blossoms in Mr. Galloway’s front yard.
Adrian met me on my porch, looking anxious. “I should get going,” he said.
I wanted to say something to make everything right again, but the evening had taken a turn and there was no salvaging it.
“Okay.” I stood on my tiptoes and stretched up to kiss him goodbye. I couldn’t quite reach on my own, but after an awkward pause, he bent down and brushed his lips on mine.
“I’ll call you,” he said, and then he was gone.
I went back into the house, where I gingerly opened the cabinet doors under the sink. The plastic bucket wasn’t there, thank goodness.
~
The rat was still on my mind Tuesday at work. I had so many positive things to think about, yet dark thoughts kept bubbling up the way they do on Tuesdays.
What’s the deal with Tuesday, anyway?
It’s always the slowest day of the week at the bookstore. Nobody can be bothered to work up a true hatred for the day, like they do Mondays, yet there’s a bleakness to Tuesday, as though it’s gradually dawning on everyone at once that the fresh, new week isn’t going as well as planned.
The sound of cars driving by on the street shifted to that of wet tires on pavement. Rain came down half-heartedly.
A man came rushing into the empty store, his face down.
“Escaping the rain?” I said cheerfully.
“Always running from something, aren’t I?” He swiped some raindrops from his brow with one sweep of his hand and turned his radiant smile on me.
Dalton Deangelo.
In my bookstore.
With his fucking chin dimple and dark eyebrows and all that sexy, cocky attitude.
“The washroom is for customers only,” I said.
Looking cute enough to take my breath away, he strode over to a display table. “I’m buying this.” He picked up a book and brought it to the counter.