Page 45 of Error Handling
My arms and legs feel like noodles that are slowly turning soft, and I don’t know what to do about it except plan my exit.
“I can turn the music up if you need motivation while working,” she says. “My neighbors probably won’t call the cops on me.”
“I usually prefer something with more electric guitar and drums while I’m breaking things.”
She gapes at me. “I thought you were just pulling up carpet.”
I clear my throat. “I am. But...” My mind is swimming in the scent of her shampoo, making it hard to think. “I guess that’s why I came back here. To tell you I’ll be making some noise. I need to pull up all the tack strips ‘cause they’re rotting in places. It looks like a dog used to pee in the back hallway too. Anyway, I’ll replace everything, and you’ll be good as new.”
“Gary is putting in new carpet?”
“Yeah. Well, I am.”
“Oh.” She looks disappointed.
“Why?”
“I was hoping for vinyl plank. It wears better and it doesn’t collect dirt and bacteria.” She gives me a sheepish look. “I have a thing about germs.”
“I guess I can talk to him. If it costs the same, I don’t see why not.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
Another awkward, heated moment passes between us. Heated for me anyway. I don’t know if she feels the same, but her demeanor and body language suggest as much. “I’ll get back to work, then.”
She nods. “I’ll try not to ruin my painting.”
I return to the back hallway, my heart thudding. These emotions, the sensations, they’re new and hit me with the intensity of hurricane-force winds. How can I feel so strongly about a woman I just met?
It defies logic. It distracts me. And I want more.
Sarah
I watch Chris as he walks away. When he rounds the corner, I round my easel and collapse onto my couch. My emotions are barely manageable. I feel shy tonight too. Maybe because I’m certain my emotions are displayed in flashing lights on my sleeve. Relationships take time to mature. They don’t start with, “Hey you’re hot, wanna make out?”
I want to make out with Chris. Of course, I want to get to know him too. But I also want to make out.
What a strange phrase. Make out. What does it even mean? I don’t know because I’ve never done it with anyone. I assume it means kissing. Lots of kissing.
When I look at Chris, I don’t see germs. I see lips that need my lips on them. It’s like I’ve gone from prepubescent tween to a cougar in the span of a week, which is a bit much to handle, quite frankly. Are there counseling services for situations like this?
He’s wearing his orange spice cologne again. The moment he walked into the back porch, the scent sent my body into fits. It was no Earl the Squirrel, but more like a tornado of hormones unleashed into my system to do whatever damage they might cause. When he stood next to me, my molecules could feel him even though atomic structures don’t have nerve endings. See? It doesn’t make sense. None of this does.
He said he likes my painting. Of course, he has to say that. Maybe he means it. Just because Chris said he likes it doesn’t mean my professors or classmates or potential buyers will find it anything special. But it was still nice of Chris to say.
My painting certainly isn’t perfect. It still needs work, and it also needs time to dry so I can turn it in on time.
I sigh and stand. My legs are working better now.
He saw my feet. My bare feet.
Thank goodness I got a pedicure last Sunday. It’s one of the few things I splurge on.
If I were to choose a private part of my body for him to see first, it would not be my feet. Too late. I didn’t expect him to come back for a visit. I expected him to keep to himself with the same brow furrow and set jaw that he left with last night.
Funny how things can escalate so quickly. From burst pipes to naked feet in less than twenty-four hours.