When We Touch

“Fair enough.” I nod, heading for the door. “I’ll be working every day for a week at least. Maybe I’ll try them all.”

“Suit yourself.”

His answer makes me chuckle. I’m getting nothing out of André I don’t earn.

Pausing for a moment, I look up at the two-story buildings—my project. The paint’s flaking off all of them, and I’d like to give them a good once-over before I start tomorrow.

I’ll come back after I’ve had a cup of coffee and eaten something. Pulling the driver’s side door, I’m greeted with the usual pop! It’s a far cry from my Audi, but I couldn’t give a shit. I place the bag on the bench seat and slide in.

* * *

It’s early afternoon when I make it back into town. I’ve left the truck at home, and I’m on foot this time. It’s not far enough to drive unless you’re carrying perishables.

The sun beats down strong, and sweat traces a line down the center of my back. I’ll need to get an early start tomorrow if I’m going to beat the hottest part of the day. I’m keeping construction-worker hours now, not lawyer hours.

Stopping at the first building, I peer through the leaded-glass windows. When I was a kid, this was a five and dime store. Emberly’s aunt owned it, and I remember she kept a barrel of candy at the front register. She’d told me why once, but I can’t remember. Something about a book she’d read… Little House on the Prairie shit.

The main thing I remember is it was full of hard candy, similar to Jolly Ranchers but a homemade variety. I was addicted to the cinnamon ones, and even though they were a nickel, she’d let me have them for free. I must’ve eaten twenty of those damn things a day. My mouth was always on fire.

Cupping my hands over my eyes, I see the place has been completely cleaned out except for the front register. A heavy wooden table is positioned against the back wall, and the shelves that extend to the ceiling are full of what look like baking supplies.

A large farm-style sink is beside two ovens stacked against the wall and on the other side is a refrigerator. It looks like somebody’s opening a bakeshop, and it’s pretty damn girlie—all whitewash and ribbons and dried flowers and twig clusters everywhere.

Wyatt gave me three different colors for the buildings—light blue, a peachy beige, and sand with black shutters. This place should be the peachy beige, I think.

Moving down to the hardware store, a few customers are inside. Wyatt is behind the counter bagging an order. I’m surprised. When I lived here nothing was open on Sundays. A quick glance tells me noon to six for this place today. Every other day begins at ten.

My new boss catches my eye, and I give him a nod. He waves for me to come inside, and I go up to the counter. The person he’s helping grabs his bags and takes off out the door.

“Ready to start tomorrow?” Wyatt asks.

“Yep, bright and early.” Motioning with the swatches, I say, “Peachy beige for the cake place. Light blue for you, and this fleshy sand for the poboy shop.”

He nods. “Works for me.”

“I’ll need to get the supplies. You here early?”

He frowns and holds up a finger. I wait as he reaches under the counter, taking out a small metal box. A set of keys is inside, and he pulls one off and hands it to me.

“Lose this, and I’ll dock your pay a hundred dollars.”

I almost laugh. “You own a hardware store. You can make a new key for free.”

“But I’ll have to change all the locks, and that’s a pain in the ass.”

A quick nod, and I take it. “Understood.” Stepping back, I motion next door. “I’ll set up the scaffolding and arrange it so it doesn’t impede your business.”

“Good thinking.” He gives me that weird, knowing look he gave me earlier. It makes me uncomfortable, like he has some secret on me, and he’s going to whip it out when I’m not looking.

“Okay, then.” I back toward the door. “I’ll let you get back to your customers.”

Out on the street, I walk in the direction of the poboy shop. I’ve got the cottage pretty stocked, but a muffuletta and a glass of pinot sound good for tonight.

André is inside, and he’s slammed. It’s early for dinner, so I keep walking further into the old neighborhood. It’s a road I remember well, and my chest grows tighter with each step. Without realizing, I’ve put myself on a path down memory lane.

Everything changes as I get closer to the main cluster of houses forming the tiny garden district. The town is laid out around a collection of twenty or so houses in a four-block radius. It’s where the original “founders” planned a neighborhood village. The stragglers, newcomers, transients, and business-owners planted their cottages and shotgun houses on the fringes or they lived over the businesses they owned.

My hands are in the pockets of my jeans as I follow the sidewalk. The trees are ancient and otherworldly. Their trunks are dark wood, nearly black, and thicker, as big around as two adults. The branches are heavy and curved, almost reaching to the ground, and covered in dark green leaves.