Page 61 of Hey Girl
Chris
You’re sobrave
And you make me behave…
NO!
I furiously scribble the dumb words out of the notebook.
I’m in slavery
To your bravery…
Hmm… not bad…
An older Toyota Corolla pulls up and I suspect it’s Door Dash, delivering my breakfast. I set the notepad down and get up to retrieve the bag of hot, processed goodness in the form of five breakfast burritos. Four for me, one for Rebecca that I push through the mail slot. She shouldn’t have to cook in her time of trouble.
After the breakfast hits my stomach like a brick, I pick the notebook back up and spend some time on the swing, trying to get back that peaceful feeling where the words seem to come so easily. Who knew all I needed was to rock back and forth a little bit to settle down?
I’ve got one whole page filled half with words and half scribbles when some dorky-looking guy comes marching up the walk. He takes a curious look at my discarded blankets, food wrappers and BLAST cans.
Don’t judge me, sir.
When he sees me, he puts a professional expression on his face and straightens his spine. I don’t like the looks of this guy.
Oh… you think you’re better than me?
I stand up to my full height and feel a twinge of satisfaction when he has to look up a little at me.
“Good morning, sir, is this your house?”
“Who wants to know?” I ask gruffly, crossing my arms.
“Uh…”
“State your business or go!” I bark.
“Uh…I’m from the voting registry, and I need to speak with the resident of…” he nervously gestures at the door.
Oh no…
NO ONE comes to my anxiety-riddled, shy girlfriend’s house during her time of woe intent on forcing her to socialize!
“We have no interest in registering with your voting company! Now begone, before I have you arrested for trespassing!”
“But… I just-,”
“Good day, sir!”
“It’s just-,”
“Oy, I say g’day!”
I turn my back, sending the message that the conversation is over and thankfully hear his footsteps retreating down the steps.
Perfect. I feel a sense of satisfaction that I’m doing something to help while Rebecca stays holed up in her house. I’m jarred, however, from my moment of triumph by a mewing at my feet that makes me look down.
Iggy!