When August Ends

Ironic that she claimed I made her nervous, because she made me downright uncomfortable. She stood across from me in a tight black shirt with her tits squeezed together. Her long, blond hair, which she typically wore up, was loose and cascading down her back, and her legs were on full display in a tiny denim skirt. I most definitely wasn’t supposed to be noticing those things—thus, the discomfort.

“Why do I make you nervous?” I asked. “You shouldn’t let anyone have power over you like that. There’s no reason I should be making you nervous. I’m just standing here.”

“It’s not what you’re doing. It’s who you are. From the moment we met, you’ve intimidated me. This dinner was supposed to be an attempt to get over that, but so far no luck.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t like that I made her nervous, but maybe it was better this way. The alternative—me being overly nice to her and leading her on—wouldn’t be good, either.

“You know….” I said. “You shouldn’t let people see you sweat. It doesn’t matter what I think about you. My opinion is meaningless in the scope of your life.”

“Oh, I know that. But I want to get to know you, and it would be nice to do that without constantly fucking things up.” She looked back toward the bedroom. “I’m gonna go in and ask my mother to come out one more time, okay?”

“You don’t need to do that. Let her be.”

She wouldn’t listen to me. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

After Heather disappeared upstairs, I wandered around the living room, expecting to find some photos to look at. There weren’t any, not a single one. Fathead—that was the name I’d made up for the dog—stared at me.

There was a large collection of figurines on a shelf, mostly children.

Her voice startled me. “I see you’ve found my Hummels.”

“Is that what they’re called?”

“Yes. I collect them.”

“I was wrong about you,” I teased. “You’re not a teenager. You’re eighty.”

She chuckled. “Don’t make fun of my Hummels.”

“I’m joking.”

She moved closer to me. “There’s a cool story behind them, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“There was this nun…Sister Maria Innocentia Hummel. That’s where they get their name. Anyway, she studied the arts before she gave up her life to join the convent. But even amidst that sacrifice, she never lost her identity. She continued her art, and she’d draw these little people. Someone discovered her and made an agreement with her to make them into figurines. After World War Two, US soldiers stationed in Germany sent these to their families. I loved hearing that. To me, they represent nostalgia and innocence—hope. They make me happy. Or, at least, at one time they did.”

Interesting. But not anymore? “How long have you been collecting them?”

“Since I was about eight. I’d ask for them for birthdays and stuff. I stopped collecting them some years back, though.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story.” She didn’t elaborate. “Anyway…I’m really sorry, but my mother doesn’t want to join us. She’s having a bad day. This is very embarrassing.”

“There’s no reason to be embarrassed about things that aren’t your fault.” It hit me that this entire invitation was likely bullshit. “She didn’t really want to meet me, did she? You said that was the reason you invited me over.”

Once again, it didn’t take much to get her to tell the truth.

“No,” she admitted. “I just wanted to have dinner with you.”

I sighed. I couldn’t even be mad at her. “So, let’s have dinner, then.”

A look of panic flashed over her face. “Dinner…shit!”

She raced to the kitchen and opened the oven to remove a burned lasagna.

“I meant to take this out before Eric came by. He totally screwed me up, and until you said the word dinner, I didn’t even remember I was baking it.” She threw the potholder down in frustration. “I don’t do the cooking thing all that often, but I normally know how to make lasagna.” She muttered, “Shit.”

“It’s okay. It’s just lasagna.”

“No. It was supposed be a nice dinner. And I messed it up. Eric showing up really fucked with me.”

She almost looked ready to cry. Suddenly, all I cared about was making it better.

“Hey…fuck the lasagna, okay? It’s a beautiful night. And we have bread. We can eat it outside.”

She managed a smile. “And salad. At least I couldn’t burn the salad.”

Stepping into action, I headed for her cabinets.

Heather followed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m seeing what else you have that we can make real quick.” I turned to her. “Do you have canned tomatoes and pasta?”

“Um…yeah…in the pantry.”

“Perfect. I’ll make pasta and a quick sauce to go with the bread.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s fine. I actually like to cook. It’s therapeutic after a long day.”

“You should do it more often then, because you’re kind of wound up half the time.”