“I disagree. But we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?” Stephen’s smile was patient, reflecting the kind man behind it. Reflecting a man who lived in a Mayberry kind of world.
“I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
She edged past him, something that got significantly harder to do each day, and wandered into the kitchen. She wasn’t at the waddling stage yet. She could still walk with dignity. She stretched onto her tiptoes to search through the dingy white cabinets for something to eat.
“Ah-ha!” she announced triumphantly, turning to face Stephen. “Would you rather have chicken noodle soup or beef Ramen noodles?” She held one in each hand.
“Hmm. I’m not sure I like your menu today. What kind of chef are you, anyway?” He grinned cheerfully, unaffected by their slim pickings. “Okay- how about… I take the pasta and you can have the soup de jour?”
“Sounds like a plan. Would you like bread with your meal? Oh, wait. We don’t have any.”
She rolled her eyes and then smiled to make sure he knew she was only kidding.
“Actually, I think I’m going to walk down to the 7-11 and get a slush before I eat. Do you want to come?”
He shook his head. “Not really…too hot.” He raised his eyebrow. “Unless you want me to. But if not, can you bring me one back? Cherry?” He started to pull out his wallet.
“No, no- it’s my treat. It’s the least I can do.” She smiled gently, another subtle Thank You for his hospitality.
“Would you quit that? It’s not a problem having you here. I like it, actually. It’s the first time in two years that the bathroom has been clean.”
The state of his cramped little bathroom when she arrived was enough to make her gag even now. There had even been mold on the shower curtain. Cleaning the house was definitely not a priority for him. His priorities were: Writing, revising and then writing some more. Eating and cleaning were on the bottom of the list as non-essential items.
He was the first creative-type personality that she had ever been around and it was intriguing. He had a habit of dropping everything in order to write when inspiration struck. It didn’t matter if he was in the shower or out mowing the grass. But if she found him in the living room writing in his underwear at 2am, it definitely wasn’t to get attention. It was simply because he had happened to be undressed when an idea came to him.
Sydney wasn’t entirely clear on the process, but apparently, when an idea came along, it could be a very fleeting thing and Stephen needed to grab it while he could. It had taken a little while to get used to his erratic behavior, because her only gauge of male normalcy was her dad and Randall Ross would never be caught dead hanging out in his underwear- for any reason.
Her father never even poked his head out of his bedroom in the morning until he was wearing the classic ensemble of the Very Important Person that he was… perfectly pressed suit, coordinated tie and shoes so highly polished that he could see up his assistant’s skirt in them.
Sydney wouldn’t know if he wore boxers or briefs to save her life. But he was such a top tier snob, that whatever they were… she was positive that they were Christian Dior. It would be unseemly for him to wear anything less than extravagant.
Her cousin, on the other hand, was partial to boxer-briefs. Fruit of the Loom- five pairs for ten bucks. She smiled, remembering the first time she had found Stephen nonchalantly cooking in them as though it was the most normal thing in the world to do. She had stopped dead in the kitchen doorway, not sure where to look. Luckily, she wasn’t easily offended and by now she just took his crazy habits in stride.
“What’s so funny?” He was watching her face now, trying to read her thoughts.
“Nothing.” She shook her head. She would never say anything. He had no inkling that the rest of the world wasn’t like him and she wouldn’t change a single thing about him.
“I just appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I’ll be back in a few minutes with your slush.” She leaned up and kissed him softly on the cheek before she left. Because her back was to him, she didn’t see the color flare across his cheeks.
Their little bungalow didn’t have a covered porch, so whenever they left the house, they were immediately exposed to the elements. Today, as Sydney stepped onto the front walk, she could feel the sun’s intensity slowly easing just a smidge as afternoon began the slow turn into evening.
A breeze kicked up and lifted her bangs off of her face, but even the breeze was hot and didn’t provide any real relief. All it did was move around the stagnant heat and the smell of sun-scorched grass. She wished that they had the money to run the air conditioner- she knew it would make a world of difference. It was just one more thing on the long list of things that she used to take for granted.
The kids in the rundown house next door were outside screaming as they took turns hurdling their sprinkler. Their skinny little shoulders were tanned from the sun and they were barefoot as they ran across their brown lawn. It was so dry that it crunched under their feet. It was also unfenced and far too close to the cars that flew by in a blur down the street.
It was clear to her from the drab shade of their grass that their sprinkler was not utilized as a lawn implement. It was strictly for entertainment purposes. But it didn’t matter. No one on this street really cared about their lawn, anyway.
It wasn’t like her parents’ neighborhood where there was an association that regularly measured each lawn to ensure that it was kept a specific length and was the appropriate shade of green. Now that she was out in the real world, she realized the ridiculousness of someone taking the time to walk around another person’s lawn with a ruler and color-wheel. There were definitely more important things to worry about in life than that.
“Sydney!” The oldest blonde boy called.
She could never remember his name. It wasn’t just the pregnancy hormones messing with her, either. She had never been good with names. People used to mistake it for snobbishness, as though she didn’t deem them important enough to put forth the effort to remember. But that wasn’t it. She just had a bad memory for things like that.
She would admit, though, that she could spout off the name of every handbag that Coach had ever carried, along with the pattern, color and size of each one. But that was different. That was Coach. Her mom had given her Coach catalogues to look at instead of Dr. Seuss books. But she hadn’t bought a new Coach for four months now so it didn’t really count anymore.