I shook my head even though he wasn’t looking at me. “No, I’m a salesperson.”
His neck twisted, faster this time, and his eyes locked on mine. “You’re a salesperson,” he repeated.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“At Pierson’s Mattress and Bed,” he stated.
“Um…yeah,” I answered.
He stared at me and I grew confused. I didn’t tell him I was a pole dancer. I also didn’t tell him I spent my days in my den of evil masterminding a plot to take over the free world. He appeared slightly surprised. I was a salesperson. This wasn’t a surprising job. This was a boring job. Then again I was a boring person. He was a police detective. I knew this because I’d seen his badge on his belt on numerous occasions. I also knew this because LaTanya told me. I reckoned, considering his profession, he’d long since figured out I was a boring person. In my mind police detectives could figure anyone out with a glance.
“You good at it?” he asked.
“Um…” I answered because I didn’t want to brag. I was good at it. I’d been top salesperson month after month for the last four years after Barney Ruffalo quit (or resigned voluntarily rather than face the sexual harassment charges that Roberta lodged against him). Barney had been my nemesis mainly because he was a dick and always came onto me along with every woman that worked there or walked through the door; and because he stole my customers.
Mitch looked back at my tap, muttering, “You’re good at it.”
“Pretty good,” I allowed.
“Yeah,” he said to the faucet and continued, “put money down that ninety percent of the men who walk in that place go direct to you and make a purchase.”
This was a weird thing to say. It was true. Most of my customers were men but then that was the way of the world. Firstly, men needed mattresses and beds just like any other human being. When they came to Pierson’s, since we had excellent quality, value and choice, they’d not want to go anywhere else. Secondly, if men were with women, they tended to be the decision-makers whether that was right or wrong.
“Why do you say ninety percent?” I asked Mitch.
“’Cause the other ten percent of the male population is gay,” he answered the faucet. I blinked at his head in confusion at his words, he straightened, putting the wrench down and lifting his other hand. Between an attractive index finger and thumb was a small, round, black plastic doohickey with a hole in the middle that had some shredding at the edges. “You need a new washer,” he informed me.
I looked from the doohickey to him. “I don’t have one of those.”
He grinned straight out and my breath got caught in my throat. “No, don’t reckon you do,” he told me. “Gotta go to the hardware store.” Then he flicked the doohickey in my bathroom trash bin and started to exit the room.
I stared at his well-formed back but my body jolted and I hurried after him.
“No,” I called. “You don’t have to do that. The water is off now and I have another bathroom.” He kept walking and I kept following him and talking. “I’ll pop by the Management Office tomorrow and let them know what’s up so they can come fix it.”
He had my door open. He stopped in it and turned back to me so I stopped too.
“No, I’ll go by the Management Office tomorrow and tell them how I feel about them lettin’ a single woman who pays for their service and has lived in their complex for six years go without a callback when she needs somethin’ important done. And tonight, I’ll go to the hardware store, get a washer, come back and fix your faucet.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I assured him courteously.
“You’re right but I’m doin’ it,” he told me firmly.
Okay then. Seeing as his firm was very firm, I decided to let that go.
“Let me get you some money.” I looked around trying to remember where I put my purse. “You shouldn’t be out money on this.”
“Mara, you can buy about a hundred washers for four dollars.”
My head turned to him. I stared at him then asked, “Really?”
He grinned at me again, my breath caught in my throat again and he answered, “Yeah, really. I think I got it covered.”
“Um…thanks,” I replied without anything else to say.
He tipped his chin and said, “I’ll be back.”
Then I was staring at my closed door.
I did this blankly for awhile. Then I did it for awhile wishing I’d shared with someone that I was in love with my Ten Point Five neighbor so I could call them or race across the breezeway and ask them what I should do now.
It took a while but I decided to act naturally. So Mitch had been in my house. He’d grinned at me. I’d discovered he had beautiful hands and beautiful eyelashes to match all the other beautiful things about him. He actually was a nice guy and didn’t just communicate this knowledge with a warm smile, what with turning off my water, going to get his tools, finding my shredded doohickey, planning to have a word at the office on my behalf and then heading out to the hardware store to buy me another doohickey. So what? After he fixed my faucet, he’d be back in his apartment and I’d be in mine. Maybe I might say something more than “morning” to him in the mornings. And maybe he’d say my name again sometime in the future. But that would be it.
So I did what I normally did. I changed my clothes, taking off my skirt, blouse and heels and putting on a pair of jeans and a Chicago Cubs t-shirt. I pulled the pins out of my chignon, sifted my fingers through my hair and pulled it back in a ponytail with a red ponytail holder to go with the red accents in my Cubs tee. Then I lit the scented candles in my living room and turned on music, going with my “Chill Out at Home Part Trois” playlist that included some really good tunes. After that I started to make dinner.
I was cutting up veggies for stir fry when there was a knock on the door and my head came up. I spied the candles, heard The Allman Brothers singing “Midnight Rider” and immediately panicked. I burned candles and listened to music all the time. I was a sensory person and I liked the sounds and smells. But now I wondered if he’d think he’d walked into a Two Point Five setting the mood for an illegal maneuver on a Ten Point Five.
Crap!
No time to do anything about it now. He’d smell it anyway and he had to hear the music through the door.
I rushed to the door, did the peephole thing and opened it, coming to stand at its edge.
“Hey,” I greeted, trying to sound cool. “You’re back.”
His eyes dropped to my chest and I lost all semblance of cool. There wasn’t much to lose but what little existed was quickly history.
Then his eyes came back to mine. “You’re a Cubs fan?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered then declared, “They’re the best team in the history of baseball.”
He walked in and I closed the door. Through this neither of us lost eye contact. This was because he was smiling at me like I was unbelievably amusing and this was because I was staring at him because he was smiling at me like I was unbelievably amusing.
He came to a halt two feet in and I turned from the closed door which meant I was about a foot away from him.
“They haven’t won a pennant since 1908,” he informed me.
“So?” I asked.
“That fact in and of itself means they aren’t the best team in the history of baseball.”
This was true. It was also false.
“Okay, I amend my statement. They’re the coolest most interesting team in the history of baseball. They have the best fans because their fans don’t care if they win or lose; we’re die-hard and always will be.”
His eyes warmed like they always did before he’d smile at me and I felt my knees wobble.