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.