Page 15 of The End of Summer

I clutch a fistful of my bathrobe against my heart, catching my breath in a fashion that is, to be fair, asmidgedramatic for this hour of the day. It’s not a gun. It’s a drill. Or, like, a screw gun. Some kind of power tool. I exhale.

“What are you doing?” the annoyed dude asks.

It takes a second to realize that I'm familiar with the exact cadence and tone of that voice. I remember it like a heart palpitation, or like one of those unwelcome songs that gets stuck in your head. As the recognition floods my body like the panties of last night’s bride when the stripper raw-dogged her romper, I become acutely aware of how I must look in this moment.

I try to respond, but there’s a morning frog stuck in my larynx. “I –” I croak. I clear my throat, the hearty cough of an 80 year-old pack-a-day smoker. “Ilivehere.” I point in the general direction of my apartment. “Well,there.”

He – Brady –theBrady Hawthorne who made a complete fool of me at my previous place of employ – scrunches up his nose, his expression shifting as his brain tries to place me. He looks different, dressed in mesh shorts and a t-shirt, a far cry from the funeral-director getup he had on when he had my sorry ass fired. I elect not to notice the fact that his biceps are large enough to strain the sleeves of his T-shirt.

He looks normal. As in,nota complete stuffy country club asshole.

Good, even. With that drill in his hand, flexing his forearm.

Ew. Stop that,I tell my brain. “What areyoudoing here?” I ask.

“I’m subletting,” he explains, eyeballing me. The confusion that dances across his face lasts only a moment. In the end, I know it’s my hair that gives me away. Nobody pulls off the Ronald McDonald color quite like I do. “Shit,” he mumbles, which is how I know he’s figured out who I am. Still, he puffs himself up like he’s got a leg to stand on, trying to regroup. “Why are you inside my rental?”

“I thought you were the management company,” I squirm sheepishly.

“Even if I was, do you make it a habit of barging into other people’s condos?”

“Luis is away,” I point out.

“So, doesthatmake it okay?”

“Oh my God!” I exclaim. “You’re the one making all this noise first thing in the morning!”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m building myself a bed. And it’s, like, 9 o’clock.”

“It’s 8:50, actually, and it’sSaturday.Were you raised in some sort ofbarn?”

This makes him laugh, a brusque puff of air cut off by his own incredulous expression. “Pray tell, what is thecorrecttime for one to partake in such activities?”

Smug bastard.“How about never?” I retort, fully aware that this is the reasoning of a toddler.

Brady huffs. “Listen, I really am sorry to have bothered you. It’s obvious that you’re coming off some sort ofnight.” He gestures at my bathrobe and fishnets. “I’ll give it an hour, so you can nurse your hangover, or whatever it is you need to be doing right now.”

My blood boils. “I’mnothung over,” I fume.

“Tell that to your outfit,” he mutters with a smirk.

“Ugh!” I grunt. “It’s the weekend!” I proclaim. “And this iscommunalliving. Don’t you know that you’re supposed to respect your neighbors?”

He tilts his head at me, his eyes bearing a curiosity that closely resembles a puppy dog, but way hotter, and in mesh shorts that may or may not give me a mild understanding of the size of his chowder cannon. “Gretchen, right? I’m sorry – are you supposed to ‘respect’ your neighbors by availing yourself of their entryways without even so much as a knock? Is that the kind of building etiquette that I’ve defied by merely trying to assemble a simple piece of furniture?”

I want to stab him with a pair of needle-nose pliers.

He crosses his arms with indignation, still holding the power tool, forcing all sorts of muscles to tighten. It’s a standoff. I can’t come up with a clever retort fast enough, so I put my hands on my hips and sneer at him. He continues to mansplain his existence to me. “I’m sure you understand. I need to get this bed built so I have somewhere to sleep tonight. Such is the quandary we find ourselves in. Hence, the hour I’m willing to give you. That is called compromise.”

I am mute, incapable of a response.

“Cat got your tongue?” he asks.

I shake my head. “You’re a dick, Brady.” I turn and head back out into the hallway.

His laugh follows me. “Aren’t neighbors supposed to bring you cookies or something?” he yells toward the still-open front door.

I slam mine behind me.

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