His toolbox sits on the porch like an aphrodisiac. She eyes the rust that has had its way on the well-used metal, function over form, though the form ain’t bad either. He’s a man who earns his dinner.
“You gonna open the door for me, ma’am?”
“Oh, yeah.” She laughs, unlatches the screen, pushes it open so he can enter.
The sleeves of his t-shirt have been ripped off, exposing muscle mass never seen on women. Somehow he gets those shoulders through the doorway. She forbids her hand from rising, touching the silky hair under his arms, from combing her fingers through, smelling the maleness. This man could start a fire with two sticks anywhere, protect her from a bear, save her during nuclear fallout.
He wears worn-in combat boots and worn-out cargo shorts. She swoons at the tear on his thigh, white threads unraveling from so many washings. This is not a man who gets several wearings out of his clothes. He uses them up. The hint of a belly ensures always feeling small beside him, unfat.
“It’s right down this way,” she says, realizing he’s waiting. She runs her hand over her hair, just to be sure. She points the way down the hallway.
Past two bedrooms, she follows as he stalks to the bathroom. A suede and canvas tool belt slings low on his hips. Phillips head screwdrivers, wire strippers, and needle-nose pliers slap his rear end. A good person to be near in an earthquake.
 |
“The fan doesn’t work,” she says. “I’m hot.”
He blushes before getting down to work.
“You want water, lemonade, ice tea, beer or wine?”
His mouth drops in indecision as he squats by the toilet for his toolbox. The thick haunches below his shorts are tan.
When she returns from the kitchen, he’s reaching for the ceiling, skilled fingers unscrewing the fan. His belly drawn taut, the concentration on his work is animal like.
“You live around here?” she asks, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, sipping a glass of wine. He wanted only water.
“Pacific Beach,” he says.
“Married?”
“Girlfriend.”
Naturally, he’s good at what he does, and when he finishes, satisfaction is guaranteed.
“Could you look at the washer?”
“What’s it doing?” he says, once they reach the small pantry.
“It slides in and out of channels, but right after it sprays, it shuts down.” Only six inches from his body, her head reaches to his chest.
He pulls off the top, and they lean in together, side by side. Black hair rests on his forearm, though hers is creamy white. These limbs almost make contact. He turns on the water as if he doesn’t notice how close they are. Steam surrounds them. He uses a wrench, some pliers. He tinkers. She inches, micro-inches, her feet, whispers herself in his direction, so that now their shoulders do touch, their hips. If they faced each other, their lips would meet. And that’s what she does, turns her head his way.
Abruptly he stands back, cutting the whole machine off.
“You need a plumber,” he tells her. He reaches for his toolbox, heads straight for the street and his van to write the bill.
Maybe she could have him install a light fixture over the back porch. She’s needs a new fire alarm. An extra electrical outlet in the bedroom would be convenient if she could find just the right spot.
She starts to say something when he returns, but he interrupts. “Sorry. Next job’s waiting.”
She pays, watches from the window as his van withdraws. Afterward, in her bedroom, she lies down and closes her eyes, searching for that perfect spot.
