December 29, 2014

Hi guys,

This is the last one, the tale end to last week’s story. In case you missed the first and second parts of the story, they are located here:

Part One:

https://litforlunch.wordpress.com/2014/12/22/december-22-2014/

Part Two:

https://litforlunch.wordpress.com/2014/12/26/december-26-2014/

And finally, Part Three:

He signed his name with minimal flourish, although Simon isn’t really a flourish-y kind of name. Not like Michelangelo or Armand or Vincent. No. Simon was just Simon. And generally speaking, he was ok with that, even if his name did look a bit small on the page.

With another heavy sigh, he folded up the piece of paper and tucked it into an envelope, even sealing the envelope for good measure.

There, he thought. That’s done.

Now came the hard part. Now he had to deliver it.

Simon took a deep breath and with a great effort, he heaved himself out of his chair. Slowly, he shuffled toward the door. He slipped on his shoes and just stood there.

He closed his eyes and rested his hand on the door knob. The letter felt like it was burning up in the palm of his other hand. Funny, he thought, how something so small and seemingly simple could feel so significant. It was, after all, just paper.

He looked down at his hand, which was gripping the door knob tightly, as though it never wanted to let go.

Could he do this? Could he just walk down the hall and slip a letter under someone’s door? Like it was totally normal?

Was it totally normal?

Simon wasn’t sure. He wasn’t exactly an expert on normal.

It didn’t matter if it was normal, he decided. He had to do it either way. So he wouldn’t waste his time worrying about normal.

Simon forced his hand to shift, twisting the knob and opening the door.

He walked slowly down the hallway, setting each foot quietly in front of the other. He stared at the carpeting as he walked, keeping his gaze on it as though he was suspicious – as if at any moment, the carpet might rear up from beneath his feet and bite him.

You can never really trust carpet, you know.

It used to be his hallway, he thought. The hallway he walked down every single day, to and from work, and when he went to take out the garbage. And on the rare few occasions when he went out to dinner. It was always his hall – whether he was walking in it or not.

Now it was no longer his hall – or at least not completely his. Because now it was hers too. And it wasn’t that other people hadn’t walked along that hall before – a dozen other people lived on this floor, down this hallway. But he had never really felt them – or thought about them.

But now the hall felt different. He remembered the cadence of her quiet footsteps, and the precise jingle of her keys. There was some lingering, faint scent of perfume in the air that made the hall not quite his anymore.

And on some level, he knew it would never really be his again.

It wasn’t very far between his apartment and hers – maybe twenty feet or so between the doors. But it felt like crossing an ocean.

Finally, he reached her front door. Deep breath. Almost there. Simon knelt down. He’d managed to slide the letter halfway under the door when suddenly the door wasn’t there anymore. And the hallway was flooded with light.

He found himself looking at a pair of slipper-clad feet. Fuzzy blue slippers. They actually looked quite comfortable. Perhaps he should invest in pair. Why hadn’t he thought of fuzzy slippers before? Maybe he just wasn’t a fuzzy slipper kind of person.

Simon was smart enough to know when his mind was babbling at him and was also smart enough to be grateful that his mouth wasn’t spewing out all of his random thoughts at a million miles a minute.

His eyes followed the slippered feet up to pajama-ed legs and he began to turn bright red when he finally met her eyes.

“Hello there,” she said. “I thought I heard something out here…. I’m glad I decided to check it out.”

She was glad? That was good, wasn’t it? Simon wasn’t sure.

“Hi,” he said. “I – I’m your neighbor.”

Her smile widened.

“I’m glad to meet you,” she said. “You know, for the longest time, I thought that place was empty? You’re so quiet. But I kept seeing light under the door, so I knew there must be someone there. And now you’ve solved the mystery for me. I’m pleased to meet you.”

She stuck out her hand to shake. Gingerly, he took it.

“I’m Christina,” she said.

“I’m ….. Simon,” he said.

For a few seconds there, he could swear he’d forgotten his own name.

“Whatcha got there?” she asked, nodding at the envelope in his hand.

He looked down, too, almost surprised to find the letter there. It felt like he’d written ages ago. He half expected that he would open up the envelope to find the paper crumbled into the dust.

“This,” he said. “This is – I just – you see…”

She just smiled, waiting for his words to fall out of his mouth in the right order.

“I hadn’t wanted to disturb you,” he said, finally. “So I thought I’d just write you a letter and slip it under your door.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she said. “I love meeting my neighbors – you’re welcome to come over any time. Well, as long as I’m here, of course.”

He felt as though a weight had dropped off of his shoulders.

“Now let’s see what you’ve got here,” she said, snatching the envelope out of his hand.

Reaction time was not exactly Simon’s strong suit. He did, however, manage to clench his hand tightly just the instant after she grabbed the envelope. Not that it helped in the least in the present situation. But he would have done fabulously well in a grip test, had one been present just then.

She opened it and read it in an instant. He steeled himself against her reaction.

“My music bothers you?” she asked.

He nodded meekly. And he was surprised when her smile returned in full force.

“You should’ve just said something,” she said. “I didn’t mean to disturb anybody.”

She shook her head.

“Poor thing,” she said. “I’ve been keeping you up nights and I didn’t even know it. I’ll find some way to make it up to you.”

Simon wasn’t expecting it when she grabbed his hand and pulled him into her apartment. Then again, Simon didn’t expect a lot of things. And at least this one was pleasant.

Within the course of a few minutes, Simon found himself seated at her kitchen table, nursing a mug of hot tea with an accompanying cookie. She’d made the cookies herself. This was not terribly surprising. She did, after all, seem like the kind of girl who would bake her own cookies.

Simon wasn’t expecting it when she grabbed his hand and pulled him into her apartment. Then again, Simon didn’t expect a lot of things. And at least this one was pleasant.

Within the course of a few minutes, Simon found himself seated at her kitchen table, nursing a mug of hot tea with an accompanying cookie. She’d made the cookies herself. This was not terribly surprising. She did, after all, seem like the kind of girl who would bake her own cookies.

What surprised Simon was not the cookies, or the tea, or her cheerful lemon-and-white kitchen. No, what surprised him was how at home he felt in a place that was not his home, with someone he’d never met before.

Simon was not fond of change. In fact, he hated it. No. He more than hated it. He was scared of it.

Change had never been kind to him. Like when his favorite laundry detergent had changed its scent. And now it reminded him of the scent of frozen peas. He’d had to switch, permanently, to his second favorite laundry detergent, which wasn’t half bad, but not nearly as good as the first. Or when his library had changed their policy – now allowing only four books out at a time instead of six. He’d had to change his schedule completely because of that – now he went once a week, instead of once every two.

He looked at her as she buzzed around the kitchen.

Sugar for his tea?

No thanks.

More cookies?

No, he was good, thanks.

She was definitely change. And she was not small change. She was not laundry detergent or library books. She was not toll booth fees or the sweetener in his latte. No – she was big change. Flesh-and-blood change, alive and buzzing and singing only a few feet from him.

And for the first time in his life, change felt good. Being in her presence – it felt right. He was not one to quibble over terminology, but for whatever reason, being around Christina… Oh all right, he would admit it.

It felt like coming home.

And suddenly he didn’t mind the music anymore.

Home wasn’t the apartment next door, with the meticulously made bed and the bowls arranged in the cabinets, stacked neatly by size and color. Not the neatly stacked alphabetized book cases, or the remotes sitting neatly in a row on the clean, dust-free coffee table.

Suddenly that place felt almost foreign – and completely devoid. Of air. Of life. Of color. Of sunshine. Of chaos.

He must’ve had an odd look on his face.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’m just fine,” he said, smiling up at her. “How was your day?”

Simon had always prided himself on a well-ordered life. Now he felt pieces of his neat, well-ordered life crumbling away.

And he had the feeling that it was going to be wonderful.

December 26, 2014

Continued from December 22, 2014. In case you guys missed that post, here’s the link:

https://litforlunch.wordpress.com/2014/12/22/december-22-2014/

Enjoy!

He awoke the next morning to golden silence.

Ok, so perhaps it wasn’t golden exactly, but it was a lot more golden than the noise last night had been and he relished it accordingly.

Sometimes, she sang in the shower. He could hear her, even through the wall, if he happened to be home at the time. She didn’t shower regularly – well, he supposed she did. It wasn’t that she was dirty, or anything, but rather that she did not seem to have apportioned a specific time each day to showering. Thus, he was not always subjected to her singing. He should be grateful for her erratic schedule.

Instead he was just alarmed, feeling as though the wall could burst into song at any moment and there was nothing he could do about it.

Simon pulled himself out of bed and threw himself into the shower. He brushed his teeth in silence, dressed in silence and walked out the door in blissful silence.

This was, he thought, how things were supposed to be.

He did not listen to the radio in the car. He sometimes listened to classical music at work – through a pair of headphones, so as not to disturb anyone, but he chose not to today.

Today, he valued the silence.

He turned on the radio for just a second on the way home. He was not sure why he did this. He touched the on-button in the same way a child touches the metal of a hot stove – after he has already been burnt. As though he is wondering if the thing could possibly still be as hot as it was the first time.

Indeed, it is.

Still as loud. Still as tinny and raucous. He only caught a few seconds-worth of music – perhaps ten seconds in all. But he was surprised that he recognized the song. It was one she had been singing a few nights ago. Something about roaring.

He would have found it quite funny, if he hadn’t been trying to read at the time.

Who was he kidding?

He hadn’t been reading. The book had long since been put away, like the sham it was. He wasn’t reading anymore – hadn’t been for a few nights now. He was just listening. And he knew he shouldn’t be.

This would, he decided firmly, have to come to an end. Soon. Very soon.

Simon knew that this couldn’t go on very much longer. He did, after all, want to know how the book ended – what happened to the characters.

The end, he decided, was always the best part. Except sometimes the best part was the middle. And sometimes it was in the beginning.

Actually, Simon decided, he was simply not very good at deciding.

But he returned home, riding the almost-silent elevator until it dinged at the fourth floor, and walking down the hall to his humble abode.

He made himself dinner, ate it quietly, and washed the dishes afterward. Then he cleaned up the apartment – not that there was so very much of it to clean. Then he fussed about and did a few other things.

Simon did not lie to himself. And he would not lie to himself on this occasion either. He wasn’t doing anything – or rather he was. But what he was doing – whatever he was doing – didn’t cover up what he was really doing, which was waiting.

Simon was waiting. And he had no idea what he was going to do.

When the music came on at 10:04, it was a relief, as though some switch had been flipped and the tension had spilled out of the room.

He listened for a while. Ah, there was that roaring song again. Vaguely pleasant, in a commercial, sing-song kind of way, he decided. He almost liked it. Almost.

But it had to stop. He couldn’t live like this. He just couldn’t.

Simon thought about what he was going to do. Or what he maybe possibly sort-of could do.

He wasn’t going over there to knock on the door and tell her to turn it down. He’d long since realized that he couldn’t do that.

So what was he going to do?

Could he write her a letter? Maybe slip it under her door?

That was ridiculous. A note. Like they were still in high school or something. What would he write in it?

Dear Girl? Dear Neighbor? Dear Attractive-woman-whose-name-I-don’t-know?

Was a letter creepy? Perhaps mildly so. But, he decided, a letter was really his only choice.

Simon was, after all, not very good at deciding things.

But still, stubbornly – decisively – he pulled out a piece of paper and sat down at his cherry-wood dining room table to write. He liked his cherry-wood dining room table.

Actually, he liked everything in his apartment, which was why he had picked it out, but the table, he thought, was particularly lovely, dark wood, with a bright gleam in it. Dark, but not depressing. Quiet, with a surprising bit of bright beauty.

But his job, just now, was not to wax poetic about his dining room table. It was to write a letter. A rather difficult letter. A rather difficult letter made even more difficult by the fact that there was still raucous pound music coming through the wall.

Simon released a heavy sigh. Not that he could hear it, over the music. But he knew it was there.

“Hello.”

That was a good way to start a letter, wasn’t it? Friendly, but not too friendly. Not creepy-friendly. And it easily bypassed the whole name-knowing thing.

“My name is Simon. I’m your next door neighbor.”

So far so good. It wasn’t brilliant, gripping writing, but it at least had the virtue of being true.

“I like to read at night, and when you play music, I find it distracting.”

Also true, if perhaps slightly creepier. Oh well, there was nothing to be done about that.

“I would appreciate it very much, if you could turn your music down, or perhaps listen to it on head phones.”

There. Not bad. He’d at least gotten the point across.

“Thank you.”

He signed his name with minimal flourish, although Simon isn’t really a flourish-y kind of name. Not like Michelangelo or Armand or Vincent. No. Simon was just Simon. And generally speaking, he was ok with that, even if his name did look a bit small on the page.

With another heavy sigh, he folded up the piece of paper and tucked it into an envelope, even sealing the envelope for good measure.

There, he thought. That’s done.

Now came the hard part. Now he had to deliver it.

To be continued…..

December 22, 2014

Happy Monday, everyone! I’ve got the day off and I’m feeling rather under the weather, so here’s an oldie:

He reached the end of the paragraph, looked at the clock for a moment and held his breath, just waiting.

10:00.

He released the breath and sucked in a fresh one, his entire body tense.

10:01.

10:02.

And then it began.

There was no slow crescendo, no gap between the silence and the noise.

And noise it was. Some raucous pop song blaring through the wall.

It had been going on every night this week. It was like a ritual now.

Every night, he would settle down in his apartment, in his chair, with his favorite mug, which was, of course, filled with his favorite tea. Earl grey. A common choice. He realized this. He also knew the tea was more likely to keep him up at night than some decaffeinated berry concoction or some soothing sleepy-time lemon tea, but there was something so peculiar about the flavor of Earl Grey, that he felt was worth the sacrifice.

He would sit in his favorite armchair, positioned so that the light from the lamp on the wooden table slanted perfectly across the pages. And he would sit and enjoy his book, with nothing breaking the delicate silence – nothing but the roar of the occasional car passing in the street below, and, of course, the soft whisper of the pages as they were turned.

That was why he would never replace his beloved books with an e-reader. Nothing could ever replace that beautiful whisper.

He would read until precisely 11:03. Because he always promised himself that he would go to bed by 11:00. Thus 11:03 became, even in its minute increment, a guilty pleasure. And all guilty pleasures are, nonetheless, pleasures. Thus, Simon allowed himself this small one, and he managed to slip into bed at 11:07 every night with the glimmer of a smile on his face.

That was how it had been, ever since he’d rented this apartment. For the past year, four months and seventeen days. No – not seventeen days. Ten days. For the past seven had been completely unlike the rest – as unlike the rest as a penguin is to a chimpanzee.

And at times, he could almost manage to convince himself that it was a chimpanzee that had moved into the apartment next door.

He had chosen this apartment, in this building. Chosen it from the other dozen he’d visited. Because it was perfect. In a quiet neighborhood, on a tree-lined street, with a park less than a block away. The building was filled with elderly people – quiet, serene elderly people, who didn’t play music after 8:00. Indeed, they did not play music before 8:00, but the latter would not have concerned him much.

And for one year, four months, ten days and perhaps 20 hours, it had been perfect. Until this girl with her raucous music had come bursting into his life. Or rather, bursting into his eardrums.

Simon could hear her now, singing along to the radio, as she banged the dishes around in her sink, presumably in some semblance of washing them. She was not, he thought, totally off-key. In fact, her voice might be considered pleasant, if one were the sort of person who enjoyed loud music at 10:00 at night. Simon was not that sort of person. And he noticed the slight occasions where her voice did slip off-key, noting them with an odd sort of pride.

Simon shut his book with an audible snap – a barely audible one, as it was difficult to hear over the music. But Simon knew it was there and that was enough. He set the book aside and planted his elbows on his knees, leaning forward to plant his face on the palms of his hands.

Still, the music assailed his ears.

Why didn’t he simply get up, knock on her door and ask her to turn it off?

He wasn’t sure.

It was, after all, not such a very long way. From his living room to his front door. And then perhaps ten paces from his door to hers.

No. Distance was not the problem. The problem lay deeper.

For, you see, Simon had never been the sort of person who dealt well with strangers. And, if he were perfectly honest with himself, which he was, he would be forced to admit that everyone was a stranger. Indeed, everyone is a stranger, until you speak to them and they cease to be.

And this girl, the one currently torturing his ears, was very much a stranger. More so than most.

He had passed her in the hallway a few times over the course of this week, once when she was moving boxes into her apartment, once when she was returning from getting the mail, and once when she appeared to be returning from the gym, wearing sweatpants and a hoody.

She had always seemed pleasant, golden-blond hair swinging in a high ponytail, with a smile on her pretty face and a quick hi or hello for him.

And therein lay the rub. For she was worse than a stranger – she was a pretty stranger. And pretty complicated things ever so much more than strange did.

He could, perhaps, on occasion, deal with strange. But Simon had very little experience in dealing with pretty.

Simon thought about her returning home from the gym, practically skipping down the hall. That was a problem too. Home. For this place was, now, her home as much as it was his, for as long as she chose to make it so.

He winced as she failed to hit a particularly high note.

This was intolerable.

Simon knew he couldn’t put up with this very much longer. But almost equally intolerable was the idea of walking over there and knocking on her door.

Simon very little liked the idea of disturbing someone at home. He even less liked the idea of disturbing her.

What if she was in her pajamas? He knew how little he liked being disturbed when he was in his pajamas. Worse… what if she was naked?

Gulp. He tried not to think about that.

Whatever it was he was going to do, he was fairly certain that he wasn’t going to do it tonight. Decisively, he pushed the book away from him and turned out the light. Then he walked slowly into his room, where the sound from the adjacent apartment was lessened, and both her singing and the music itself were muted.

It took him a long time to fall asleep. Simon continued trying not to think about that.

Of course, he failed.

To be continued tomorrow…..

November 28, 2014

Continued from Thursday, November 27th…

Dinner was lovely. Dinner could not be faulted. It was a little outdoor cafe on the boardwalk. Her Mom’s boyfriend had taken them out.

Oh, yes.

They were staying with her Mom’s boyfriend. Who lived in Florida. Not that boyfriend was exactly the right term, or perhaps it was, if applied loosely. Stepfather was more appropriate really – they’d been dating since she was eleven. So stepfather in all but jewelry, really.

He was, in fact, the reason they’d gone to Florida. Let’s visit him, her Mom had said. It wasn’t a bad idea, and somehow, miraculously, they all found places to sleep in his little one-bedroom apartment.

Sharing a bed with her Grandma was not bad experience – Grandma didn’t kick. Not even a little bit.

But still, it was nice to escape the confines of the apartment for a bit – and dinner really was lovely. The food was good and the little cafe had live music – a singer crooning away at the mike, old classics – ‘These boots were made for walkin’ and ‘Besame mucho.’ Stuff she had to fight not to sing along to.

Dinner was great. Fantastic, even.

No, the trouble was the after-dinner part.

“You are not leaving this house in the dark by yourself,” her Mother said.

Sigh. She felt like a puppy. Like they thought she’d escape if they ever let her off the leash.

“Mom, I’m twenty-six. I’ll take a walk on the beach if I want to,” she said.

Jenna spoke slowly, as though she were trying to explain the concept of a beach to a very small child.

“No. You won’t. It’s dangerous out there.”

“Mom, it’s Florida,” she said. “I’ll be twenty feet from the condo. Not exactly the wilderness.”

The only response was some rather emphatic headshaking.

“What are you afraid of?” she asked. “That I’ll be snatched up and pulled out to sea by the kraken?”

“No. I was thinking more along the line of rapists, thieves and murders.”

Sigh.

******

It had been hardwon, but Jenna gave a little skip from the sidewalk as she leapt onto the sand, leaving her flip-flops behind. It was either a night-time walk on the beach or a nine o’clock bedtime – and there was no way she was going to sleep at nine.

And, quite frankly, hiding in the closet to read didn’t seem like particularly pleasant option either.

Somehow, she managed to convince her mother that it was still early – that nine o’clock was pre-rapist-and-murderer time. You know, that they didn’t come out until at least ten-thirty.

But nonetheless, she was tied to a strict half-hour deadline. If she wasn’t back in half an hour, her mother was calling the cops and sending out a SWAT team.

But it was worth it, Jenna thought, feeling the cool breeze blowing against her face and the deliciously cool, wave-washed sand under her feet.

The walk was pleasant. Every now and then, she’d turn to look at her footsteps trailing behind her in the sand, like a moonlit path from a story.

And she was, she thought, perfectly fine on her own.

The beach was empty, except for the occasional person taking their dog on a night-time walk. She would be sure to report the lack of rapists and murderers to her Mom.

She was perfectly fine by herself, she repeated. Perfectly – OWWW!!

Shit.

She’d never been stung by a jellyfish before, but judging based on the intense burning coming from the bottom of her foot, that was what had just happened.

She hopped up and down on one foot, semi-staggering on her one good leg.

Well, great.

So maybe…. walking on the beach alone at night. Maybe not the best idea. She felt tears well at the backs of her eyes. How far was she from home? Could she hobble all the way back? She wasn’t sure.

She was still weighing her options – and trying not to cry – when she crashed into another problem. Well, maybe not problem, exactly. But a walking, talking, two-legged human.

“Whoa. You ok there?”

The guy was taller than her, and when she finally got herself hopped around to face him, she looked up into a pair of concerned brown eyes…. surrounded by perfectly floppy hair.

Aw, hell.

Not that she hadn’t wanted to get Surfer Boy’s arms around her… but she hadn’t expected to be staggering drunkenly down the beach and in pain when it happened.

But help was help, right? And she only hoped he would help. She could soothe a kitchen burn like nobody’s business, but Jellyfish were whole other bucket of fish.

“I – I think I’ve stepped on a jellyfish,” she said, trying not to lean on him too hard.

“Ok,” he said. “Hang on.”

It was a good thing he was sans-surf board this time – because she didn’t think he could’ve hobbled onto the sand with her and his surf board in tow.

“Thank you,” she said, as he set her down in the sand.

She watched as he plopped his backpack onto the sand. That cute little hank of hair fell in front of his eyes as he dug through it. She did not reach out to brush it away.

He pulled something out of the bag and moved down to the water. She was only a little surprised when she felt a cool, firm hand against her ankle. She watched as he gently poured water over her foot.

“You have to use salt-water,” he said. “Fresh water might enflame the sting more.”

He reached into the backpack again and pulled out two small somethings.

She only jumped a little when she felt something scraping against the skin of her foot – a credit card.

“Relax,” he said, placing a cool hand on her ankle. “I won’t hurt you. At least not anymore than the jellyfish already has.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, giving him a small smile. Now that the pain was mostly gone, she was just looking at him. And she hoped, when he looked back, that he didn’t see all of the grossly inappropriate thoughts running through her mind.

She watched as he scraped her foot with the credit card and then pulled the tentacles out with a handy little set of tweezers.

“Does this happen to you a lot?” she asked.

“Finding cute girls hopping around one-legged on the beach?” he asked. “No, that’s kind of a rarity. But the jellyfish sting thing – hang around on the beach long enough and it’s bound to happen.”

“I’m glad you were here,” she said. “And I’m glad you were prepared.”

“Yeah, well, me too.”

The pain was gone now. But she was still kind of regretful, as he released her ankle to sit down next to her on the sand.

“So,” he asked. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Jenna,” she told him, fighting the urge to stick out her hand like she was at an interview. Instead, she ran a palm over her long ponytail, trying, somewhat pointlessly, to smooth it down.

“I’m Chris,” he said.

The silence that hung between them wasn’t uncomfortable – it was just silence, broken by the rush of the waves, as they watched the glimmer of moonlight on the ocean.

“Am I allowed to ask you why you were staring at me on the beach earlier?”

She turned to look at him and her eyes widened in indignation.

“I was not staring,” she said.

“You totally were.”

“I was not,” she said. “That was not staring – I’m like a professional starer. When I’m staring, you’ll know it.”

He chuckled. He had, she noted, a nice laugh. And quite a nice voice.

“Well, I knew it,” he said.

“I guess I might not’ve been as subtle as I thought I was being.”

“Maybe not,” he agreed.

She smiled at him.

“I wasn’t really sure what to say,” she admitted.

“Maybe,” he said. “Next time, you should just start with hi.”

“Advanced line,” she answered. “You would’ve fallen for that?”

“I’ve fallen for worse in my time.”

“Yeah, well… Hi.”

“Hi.”

He smiled back at her.

“So what are you doing down here, anyway?” he asked.

“Is the tourist thing that obvious?”

“Blindingly so.”

She shifted her legs against the sand, marveling at the absence of pain.

“I’m just on a family vacation with my Mom and Grandma.”

“And they’re cool with you going for walks on the beach by yourself at night?”

“Not exactly.”

She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and looked at the glowing digits on the screen.

“I have to be back in exactly fifteen minutes,” she told him. “Or they call the SWAT team.”

“Bringing out the big guns, huh?”

She nodded and her smile turned sad.

“I guess I should be getting back,” she said.

With a heavy sigh, she shoved herself off of the sand and tried to stand, only stumbling a little before he managed to get up and catch her.

“Can I walk you back?” he asked, having the good grace to pretend she didn’t just fall on him.

“I’d like that,” she said, managing to stand on her own now, although he did not let go of her hand.

Fifteen minutes of walking, she thought, covers a surprising amount of conversation. She now knew that he had three sisters and a cat name Muffy – not a name of his choosing. Shelter cats come pre-owned – that was his excuse and it was a pretty good one. He now knew that she hated onions, that they were flying back home in two days and that she wanted a dog, but that her building didn’t allow pets.

She didn’t want to let go of his hand as she stepped back onto the sidewalk in front of her building. She swallowed hard, trying to gather a little courage.

He looked up at her.

“So, are you planning any more adventurous night-time walks for tomorrow night?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she answered.

“You can tell your Mom that you won’t be alone next time,” he said.

“I won’t be?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “I’m thinking of cultivating a habit of night-time walks on the beach. I tried it once and something really good happened to me.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I’ll see you out here tomorrow?” she asked.

“I certainly hope so,” he answered.

“I’ll be out here at eight,” she said.

“Then so will I.”

He stroked his fingers gently across her knuckles and then she reluctantly pulled her hand out of his. But it was made slightly easier by the fact that she’d see him again.

“Good night,” she told him, trying very hard not skip with joy on her way into the building.

Oh yeah. This family vacation was definitely looking up.