The neighbor borrowed my tools
The neighbor borrowed my tools.
I don’t remember why. Didn’t matter.
The next night, he knocked on my door.
I hesitated. I’d been avoiding words, people, any noise that wasn’t my own.
But I opened it anyway.
“Thanks for the tools,” he said.
“Yeah.”
Then he launched into some story about how he cut his knee and now he limped.
Gave me a whole show, dragging his leg like a dying animal.
“That’s a real bitch,” I said.
“Yeah, listen,” he grinned,
“you like weed? Got some gummies. Real fun stuff.”
God, I hate that word-gummies.
It crawls under your skin and stays there.
“No thanks.”
“Oh, alright, well tell your girl too. You know where to find me.”
I didn’t have a girl.
Just one who left that morning.
I drained my beer, sat at the keys,
finally started feeling something worth typing,
when another knock came.
I didn’t hesitate this time.
Some stupid corner of me thought, maybe it’s someone I’d actually want to see.
Old lover, bad decision, a second chance in a short skirt.
It was him again.
“I almost forgot.”
He handed me my tape measure.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’m heading to the store in a bit,” he said.
It was 9 PM.
Nobody went grocery shopping then.
“So if you want those gummies, let me know, okay?”
“Okay.”
He left.
I remembered he still had my pliers.
Didn’t bother mentioning it.
He’d be back.
Seemed like he needed the visits more than my tools.