Page 7 of Going Down

The bathroom is tucked behind the teeny kitchen. Given the setup of the rest of the place, I don’t expect Dash to be pooping through a hole in the floor. However, I’m completely unprepared for how charming the teeny room is. His cartoon character spinning toothbrush and grown-up tube of paste sit next to a clean white prowling vessel sink. The tub is a galvanized bucket long enough to stretch your legs out in. A broad window behind it gives an open feeling and there’s plumbing piping affixed to the ceiling to draw the curtain all the way around the tub and across the glass for privacy when the shower is in use.

The only thing I can see out the window is a hazy moon. Even knowing there’s no one around for miles, I close the drapes before pulling my spare clothes out of my knapsack and start to undress. When Dash knocks on the door I hold my shirt over my breasts and open it a crack.

“I brought you something to change into in case any of your clothes were damp. If you want to leave any of it outside the door, I can hang it to dry by the woodstove.”

“Thanks.” I’m glad Dash can’t see me blush at his thoughtfulness. “Only the cuffs of my socks are damp.” I look at the items scattered on the floor, searching for the fresh pair. “Actually,” I say as he tugs the knob closed. “Do you mind? I’m missing my second set of thick socks.”

He passes the whole stack inside. “Put on whatever you need.”

I don his woolies for my feet and slide a too-big basic black tee shirt over my extra pair of thermal underwear. I check my reflection in the mirror, to see what I look like in the most interesting first date attire I’ve even worn. My bleached dreads are loose and, for the first time in a while, I worry about the dark inches of roots showing at my scalp. It took years to get them this long and I’m torn deciding if I should remove them.

In the main part of the trailer, Dash is barefoot, wearing a pair of comfortable jeans that accentuate his rear end the same way his thermals do. He stands over a wok filled with colorful vegetables. Water boils next to it in a pot. He takes a pea pod from the stir fry, blowing on it before offering it to the kitten. Capote darts away with the green treat, jumping into the rafters and proceeding to shred the pod for fun.

“Woah, Kat,” Dash remarks when he sees the vibrant hues peeking out from under the plain black tee I have on. He traces a light finger over the outlined mandalas and paisley swirls above my wrist to where the ink of my full sleeve has been completed. “This is gorgeous.”

“Can I help?” I ask, after quietly thanking him for the compliment.

Dash opens the damaged cabinet and gives me two mess kits with utensils attached. The lightweight and colorful material makes me happy like a cheesy online video. I’m stunned at how relaxed I am with Dash for as odd as he is.

He whistles while he cooks and I start wondering what’s wrong with this man. Dash is an open book. I’m certain he says what he’s thinking and lays it on the line. How upfront he is may be what I’m having difficulty with. Unless, of course, the actual problem isn’t Dash at all. It’s me.

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4

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You make people realize there are other beauties in the world

“So who are you, Kat?”

The serious way Dash asks makes me stop to ponder. I’m not sure I know anymore.

“I’m just a girl who works at a mountain.”

“There has to be more to you than that. Did you go to college?” The last noodle from the bowl of Pad Tai disappears between his lips.

“I was a biology major. Pre-med. I quit my senior year. Ski Patrol was hiring and I’ve done this over the winter ever since, sticking around at First Aid when the hikers and mountain bikers use the slopes for recreation during the summer. I like this resort. It’s one of the ones we frequented when I was growing up.”

“Your parents are both doctors,” he says astutely. I get the impression Dash likes guessing games and puzzling people’s personalities.

“Oncology and orthopedic surgery. My dad’s fixed up a few Beantown basketball players.”

Dash finds a common connection, mentioning his dad once had shoulder surgery for a football injury. Instead of monopolizing the conversation by telling me the story, he peppers me for more details about my background. “So your mom’s got a tough job. She must lose a lot of patients.”

“I suppose. She doesn’t talk much about the cancer center. Nowadays all I ever hear about is her latest boyfriend.”

“The stress is probably why she focuses on something more positive.”

It’s not that I haven’t considered my mother’s career as an impediment. I’m merely not ready to have Dash—or anyone else, for that matter—dissect her choice to leave responsibilities behind.

“She forgot my birthday.” It slips out unconsciously.

“When was your birthday?” His shoulders tense.

“Yesterday.”

“Crap, Kat. Why didn’t you say so?”

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