Boy of Summer

"Maybe things will be different this time," she said, her head titled slightly in question.

He lifted his eyes to meet hers, returning them quickly back to the ground.

"Give me five minutes. I'll meet you back here, " he mumbled and walked off, scraps of paper scattering around his feet.

She watched him walk away and wondered about him, a tinge of worry framing her curiosity.

She pulled out a Virginia Slim and dug deep into her overstuffed handbag for a matchbook. A man approached, fixing his eyes on her as he walked down the sidewalk. More often than not, the lingering stares of men did not bother her, but there were moments when she had to restrain herself from running far away and never coming back.

Instead, she turned to face the store display window, piled high with television sets.

"What’s the score?" he asked, leaving a safe space between them.
She flicked her cigarette towards the curb, then smiled.
"You startled me, " she said, blowing smoke out of her nostrils. "Come on, let's get out of here."

Most of the way, they strolled in silence, the heat too suffocating to walk at a faster pace. She adjusted her dress, its A-line cut allowing a slight breeze to give her some relief. She tried to make conversation, but he only replied with a terse "yes" or "no".

"Tell me something? Do you like me at all?" she asked.

"Yes, I do," he answered.

"Well at least I got a complete sentence out of you this time," she joked.

He looked down at his hands, his palms facing the ground. She’d noticed this nervous habit of his, always examining his hands as if something was missing from them. He’d also fiddle with his fingers the way a shy schoolboy did when he was around the first girl he liked.

When they reached the building, he led the way up the staircase and they stood before the door. He pulled out a large round key ring that— as he removed them from his pocket— sang like a wind chime. Except they weren’t standing on some classic veranda, overlooking a view of the hills. They were in a dim staircase that smelled of body odor and mildew. She would not have noticed the key ring, except that there was something unusual about it: He had arranged all of the keys by color, shape and size. He found the key to the door in no time and unlocked it. The room did not look lived in, yet there was something about the way it smelled that revealed otherwise.

"Wanna drink?" he asked, pulling off his seersucker, revealing the damp armpits of his white button up shirt.

"No thanks. That stuff'll kill you," she said facetiously as she pulled out another cigarette.

“I like your shirt,” she added, watching him, “only seen those kinds in the picture shows.”

“It’s called a guayabera. From Cuba,” he explained. He pulled a clear bottle out of the dresser drawer and poured a drink into one of the two glasses sitting on the dresser.

"Why don't you come sit beside me," she offered, patting the bed where she had settled. She moved over to make room for him, causing the meticulously made-up bedspread to shift.

He swallowed the drink in one shot, walked to the bathroom to rinse the glass and returned to the room. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the glass dry and set it back on the table.

"Come," she urged, and he sat beside her, smoothing out the wrinkles in the bed.

She placed her hand on his, trying to provide some comfort for his nervousness, and felt him stiffen up.

"Why do you do that?" she asked.

”Do what?” he asked.

“Mess with your hands like that?” she explained.

He shrugged.

She took his hand and placed it on her knee. He may as well have been asleep with the weight it held.

"I—I can't. I'm sorry," he whispered and hung his head low.

She sighed and placed his hand back on his lap. The bed creaked as she leaned over him to grab another cigarette.

"I should be upset that I'm wasting my time with you..." her voice trailed off. He waited for a “but,“ but one never came.

They sat in silence until she rose and squatted in front of the television to turn it on.

"I'll leave in a minute," she said and sat back down beside him.

He took a breath in and hesitated, then opened his mouth to speak: "I can't see well without my glasses. What's the score?"

"It's 4-3," she replied.

"Are we winning?"

"No. We're not," she said, crushing her cigarette in the glass ashtray.

"Well," she said picking up her handbag. "I'm going now. I hope the next time I see you, you'll know for sure what you want out of this—this arrangement," she said looking at him.

He looked down at his hands.

She walked towards the dresser and slid the folded bills off the table and into her pocket.

He opened his mouth, again in hesitation, as she reached the door.

"You know, I'm not always gonna be here. One day, I'll be going home," he said with more conviction than she'd ever heard in his voice before.

"Right," she said. "And until then, I'll see you around," she added on her way out the door.