A streetlight illuminates Trip’s white Toyota truck; its motor hums. He’s sitting inside, seat belt fastened, hunched over some documents. I can tell the AC is on full blast by the way it blows the papers. He looks up; I freeze. He doesn’t see me on the curb, can’t detect that just two weeks ago, I flirted with a man named Paul.
I slip off my shoes. My toes, cramped and cold from a long day at the office, soak up the residual warmth baked into the sidewalk. Raindrops from an afternoon squall linger on the plants, amplifying the scent of confederate jasmine that blooms riotously beside my house. It’s twilight now, and Charleston is warm, seductive, and sweet-smelling. It’s an evening ripe for springtime romance. So why can’t I conjure up any feelings for the wonderful person inside that truck?
I stretch my arms overhead, trying to awaken my body. Maybe I can somehow physically summon the spark I used to feel when his truck rolled up to my apartment. I exhale, walk over, knock on his window.
“Agh!” He jumps, puts his hand over his heart. I notice the print of his bow tie: tiny palmettos. He bounds out of the Toyota and hugs me.
I lean into his chest. He lowers his face to reach mine. I tuck in closer to avoid having to kiss him. Undeterred by my hesitance, or perhaps just oblivious, Trip kisses my forehead. “Put on your shoes. You could step on glass.”
It’s something Dad—or Tito—would say, and in the same practical, no-nonsense tone. “I’m fine.” I push from his embrace, backing away into the wet street.
He starts to say something but instead shakes his head. When he reaches for his bag in the passenger seat, I turn to scamper up the staircase, open the door to my apartment, and have the bizarre but delightful thought that I could just lock him out. I don’t, of course.
Trip hollers from the bottom of the staircase, “Slow down there, Speedy.”
He finds me in the kitchen and leans against the doorframe, watching me as I root around for a wine opener. I know he wants me to turn around and kiss him, do what normal engaged people do.
“Cinnamon, sweetie, you’ve got roaches.” Trip rips a paper towel from the roll, picks up the dead one on the floor, tosses it in the trash can.
“I know. So gross. Charleston butterflies . . .”
He opens my countertop compost tin, releasing a fruit fly. “It’s probably because of this.”
“Well, I’m still going to compost.” I hand him a glass of wine. “How’s work?”
“It’s challenging. In the best way. But I don’t want to talk about work now.” He puts his glass on the counter before taking a sip. “And I don’t want wine. I want my bride.” He steps forward, reaches his arm around my waist. Instinctively I stiffen, but not enough for him to notice.
He cups my cheeks in his big bear hands, bringing us face-to-face. His eyes are gentle, and behind that warm hazel gaze is a promise of safety. And perhaps, somewhere beneath the sheets of my bed lies my deep, wayward, long-buried promise of love. I take a breath and unbutton his collared shirt.