Dreams of 18

It isn’t the streaks of dirt on his hiking boots that make him look masculine, it’s his dark stubble.

Actually, can you even call it stubble if it’s thick enough to bury your fingers in? A beard, then. Or the beginnings of one.

It covers his jaw, which is angular and square, broad even. He reaches up and scratches it, drawing my attention to his long fingers and his exposed forearm dusted with dark hair and the winding ridge of a vein.

Bones and muscles, that’s what comes to mind when I see him do that, scratch his almost-beard, I mean. And strength.

The kind that I’ve never encountered before.

I take him in as a whole: his dark messy hair, his wide stance, his squinting-against-the-sun eyes.

Yeah, strength. And masculine beauty.

He can’t be from around here. It’s impossible.

We live in suburban Connecticut where men wear polo t-shirts, belong to the Yale Alumni Network and play golf in Italian loafers.

I’d shift my gaze and try to discern the logo of the moving company on the vans so I can figure out where he’s from, but I just can’t look away from him.

In fact, I track his movements.

His steps are long and sure as he comes to the rescue of a couple of moving men. They seem to be flagging under the weight of a giant coffee table. As soon as he lends a hand and grabs one end of it, the men stabilize. Their tense frames relax, and they resume moving toward the house.

Through it all, I notice that he isn’t even breathing hard. There’s hardly any strain on his body whatsoever, except maybe in his biceps. They swell up under his shirt, stretching the soft fabric.

I don’t know why I think his shirt might feel soft to touch but I do. Maybe because everything else about him is so rough and coarse.

Something I know that my fingers have never encountered before.

I watch their progression across the yard, up the stairs, through the porch and into the house via the front door. Even though I knew he was going to disappear, I still feel a tiny bit shocked when he does. Like I just woke up from sleep and awareness is slowly seeping in.

My lollipop is stuck to the inside of my cheek and I tongue it free. My knees are digging into the hardwood floor and up until this second, I hardly felt it. Now, I shift to relieve the pressure on them.

But mostly, it’s the awareness in my skin.

It’s hot and flushed. And red.

I can see the goosebumps on my wrists, the hairs standing taut and my flesh colored scarlet. It’s weird that my hands, clutching the windowsill like Fiona, are blushing, along with the rest of my body.

But they are.

Anyway, I don’t have time to think about the whys and hows of it because a few moments later, he comes walking out the door.

He bounds down the front stairs, his thighs strong and powerful. I almost hear the thuds of his boots on the ground. He’s stopped by a few moving guys, who reach up to his broad, thick shoulders.

As I watch them all talking, I realize that he might be the tallest man I’ve ever seen. Tallest man of all. Tallest man there ever was.

In fact, looking at him right now, at how tall and broad he is, I think that maybe I should see more people.

Maybe I should be more worldly. I should get out more and notice things around me, instead of keeping my nose stuck in Charles Bukowski and his wisdom, and my journals. Instead of keeping my face almost hidden behind my large headphones and my dull blonde hair that mostly just appears brown with slashes of gold in it.

For some reason, this man makes me feel younger than my sixteen years.

“Oh my God, he’s hot,” says Fiona.

It feels like she’s talking after ages, although I know it’s not true. While she was going on and on about something that I should’ve known already, I was watching this man.

But I do hear her this time. Probably because I’ve been thinking the same thing.

He is hot. And sexy and strong and commanding and just… capable of all the things.

“Yeah, he’s hot,” I breathe out, watching him run his fingers through his dark hair.

“I can’t believe he’s moving in next door,” Fiona says in the same whispery tone as me.

“He is?”

My voice is squeaky and high. Flushed just like my body.

It makes sense though. That’s why he isn’t in the uniform. He’s the one who’s moving in.

Of course.

He’s our new neighbor. I guess I just didn’t think of it because he’s so unlike the people who live here. All stuffy and pale and uptight.

“Didn’t I just explain everything to you?” Fiona berates me. “I told you. Mom told us this last week. New people are moving in next door. And Brian Edwards is going to be in your grade. I looked him up online and oh my God, he’s so cute. I’ve been waiting for this day. I wonder where his parents are. You know what? I’m going to ask Mom to invite them over for a welcome dinner or something. I need all the dirt on him. Everything.” She squeals beside me. “Can you imagine, him living next door? So freaking cute and sexy. Ugh, I’m dying.”