Chapter 1.5: Intimations of Infatuation, or Wherein the Not-Entirely Unexpected Awkwardly Commences
Continued from the previous issue . . .
From the back, at least, Sam didn't look that skinny. Certainly not all sinewy like Toby, or all bones like what's-his-name. Decidedly pear-shaped, Leslie thought. His hair was darker than red, as well. Auburn? Squirrel's-nest brown, maybe.
At the moment, he was midway through dumping a full five-gallon humey bucket, and she hesitated to disturb him. Who knew what might happen if you startled someone during a delicate waste-management moment?
She breathed in sharply, trying not to feel nervous. A smell that was half warm barnyard and half wet leaves hit her. It wasn't pleasant, but then it wasn't unpleasant either. Sad, she thought, that it was less familiar to her than gasoline fumes.
The toes of her socks were beginning to grow damp. She looked down at the boots she had bought because they looked functional, but nice enough to wear when she went back to what she still called her "real life." She hadn't waterproofed them.
A stick snapped as she shifted her weight, and Sam's head immediately flicked to the side. His glasses slipped down and fell into one of the buckets he had opened in his usual preparatory way.
"Sh-" he said, "-oot." Falling back against a corner post, he closed his eyes, his body shaking.
It took Leslie a good few seconds to recognize it as laughter. "Hi." She walked a few steps closer, peering down into the bucket that looked to contain more parts sawdust than anything else. And, of course, a pair of thin wire-framed glasses. "Can I-" she swallowed a gulp of a laugh, "-do anything to, um, help?"
His eyes stayed closed. "No, no. You've done enough already." But his laughter became audible, and a touch hysterical. "This is perfect. A perfect end to a perfect morning." "I could wash them off for you."
"Agreed. You could."
"I wouldn't have to, though." She stared down at the glasses; they had nested on a small piece of tissue paper, she noted. "If you would rather do it yourself."
"That's true, too."
"I'm Leslie," she said quickly.
"Of course. I didn't recognize your step."
"Oh." She began to wish that syllable wasn't quite so much a part of her Jaunty-Weasel-specific conversational gambit. She also began to wish she had made some other specific plans for the afternoon, so she could have an excuse to edge away. How long would they stay fixed in these positions without such an excuse?
"It wasn't exactly my fault. About the glasses." She pulled on the extra pair of rubber gloves that lay next to a nearby honey locust tree. It was one of the few trees she knew by name-- how could you mistake those thorns?
"Not per se."
She glanced back at him before turning away to pick up a different bucket. He still hadn't opened his eyes. She jerked the handle up noisily, hauled the bucket to the bin that was marked "Active." She tried to flip it as expertly as he had, knocking its side with the flat of her hand. Nothing to it.
She turned back. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"I have no idea." His eyes were gray, and only appeared to be studying her closely. All he could really make out was a short, rounded shape with a puff of dirty-blonde hair. Or, it would have been dirty-blonde hair were it completely clean. She looked a little bit like the Easter chick his grandmother had once given him. "In this context."
Now that he had opened his eyes, she didn't feel as comfortable looking at him. "What do I do next?"
"Dump the rest of the buckets, I'd say."
"All the rest of the buckets?"
The typical edge of impatience returned to his voice. "Yes, all the rest of the buckets."
She smiled to herself. "All the buckets?"
"Listen, if you don't want to do this, you don't have to--"
"No, believe me, I want to," she replied under her breath, "I just don't know that I should."
"Huh?" He squinted. "Oh. Glasses." He slapped his forehead. Then he looked at his still-gloved hand. "Ew."
"I'll fish 'em out for you."
"Oh. Thanks. Listen, I'm sorry if I-- it's hard sometimes--"
"I rarely take things personally," she lied, remembering her conversation with Tiff. It was a lie that she intended to work at making true, at least for a two-week duration. "I'll wash them off in the O.K.* That is what it's called, right?"
"Yes. Thanks."
She proceeded to do so.
He tried to watch her go, but gave it up after three or four feet.
*Outdoor kitchen-- an open-air space to cook and work on food preservation during the warmer months when cooking inside is potentially a sweltering affair
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