Page 4 of Slots & Sticks
Every afternoon, at the same time. He shows up like clockwork, cutting across the yard and dropping down onto the curb with that same worn-out silence.
I never ask why.
Instead, I talk.
At first, it’s murmurs under my breath. A few words here, a dumb comment there. But then the quiet gets too loud, and the things I keep locked in my chest start to slip out between customer hellos.
“Did you know lemon rinds are supposed to keep bugs away? It’s a lie.”
Or—
“My mom says glitter is a personality. I think it’s just mess disguised as fun.”
Or—
“I don’t get the jokes most people get. Like, I want to. I laugh, even. But sometimes I have to look them up later to figure out why they were funny.”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t react.
But he doesn’t leave, either.
So I keep going.
About school and the smell of dry-erase markers. About how loud the cafeteria gets. About how my brain hums like a hive. About my mom’s songs and my dad’s hockey. Everything I don’tsay out loud to anyone else spills out here, into the quiet he gives me.
I talk about everything.
Because he listens.
Not with nods or noises. But with that quiet stillness that makes me feel like I’m not invisible. Or too much. Or some freak show kid who inherited all the wrong things. He doesn’t talk. I talk too much. But somehow, we both understand the silence better than the noise.
By August, we’ve got a system. He sits. I talk.
The last day before school feels heavier than the rest.
The sun’s blazing, but the shadows are longer. The sidewalk feels quieter, like the whole street’s holding its breath before school starts and everything gets loud and hard again.
And hockey season starts. That’s a big deal around here.
I pack up the lemonade stand slowly, like if I stall long enough, the seasons won’t change. The table’s sticky. The sign’s curling at the edges. Our coin jar isn’t even halfway full, but I don’t care.
He shows up like always—quiet and steady.
Only this time, he doesn’t sit.
He stands on the curb, watching me. Just watching.
I feel it in my chest, that weightless flutter I only get when something matters. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know why it is. I just know this is different.
I walk over to him, anxiety building in my throat.
“Hey,” I say, voice small.
He glances at me. It’s not a full look, not a stare. Just a flicker. A recognition. A yes, I see you.
“I’m packing it up for the summer.”
He nods once. It’s such a small movement, but it steadies everything in me. Like the moment before the puck drops—quiet, loaded, waiting.
