It’s a spring, rainy Saturday afternoon: warm air, cold rain. You’re walking out of your apartment and you see me in the hall walking into my apartment, next door. I’m wearing a worn flannel shirt, some old jeans with paint splotches all over, knees torn, and carrying a laden bag of Home Depot stuff. I’m drenched too; it looks like someone (me) forgot their umbrella. There’s a puddle of water where I’ve been standing while fiddling for my keys.
“Hey there Kurt,” you say, smiling, as you step into the hallway. You’re wearing a flowing spring sundress, hanging by straps from your freckled shoulders. Even in our sunless shared entry hallway, I make mental note of its semi-transparentness, then shake it off. I realize I haven’t seen you without your mask. I thought you were gorgeous before, but now?
“Hi Miya,” I respond, cheerfully. Some water drips from me to the floor.
“You’re in marketing right? But I guess you’re a handyman too?” you say, nodding to the Home Depot bag.
I laugh, “I’m handy When I need to be! Actually I’m working on some closet doors. Our landlord sucks, you know, and I’m tired of them not working and him not doing anything, so I’m doing it myself.”