You arrived along with two other dudes, your hard r’s and nasal vowels chattering away while you scraped back the weeds from the path. None of you had ever driven a skidsteer before apparently, though I wouldn’t have known.
Around lunchtime, I laid out the tarts and donuts I picked up from the Supervalu on a white enamel plate trimmed in blue. X had given me a teapot years ago and I was glad to be finally using it. I felt like an Irish mammy; this year I am 40.
Outside I opened the boot of my Rav4 so that you lads could sit away from the greenhouse rain that hadn’t let up all morning. I lay down the tray of pastries and tea, sugar in a little ramekin, milk in a little jug. Can I get you anything else? I asked out of politeness.
You looked down at me, your neck at an angle because you were so tall. Your eyes were kind and had just a hint of humour; Coffee please, you asked quietly. Coffee, you repeated. Just a little bit of humour, but also just a little bit of fact. Blue eyes sussing out if that was ok, if that went too far. Sure, I said, and as I turned to go you said, Thank you, relieved.
I wondered if you could carry me under one arm. I wondered if you could whip me over one shoulder and transport me like a bag of cement. You probably laughed quietly, not like the two other dudes you were with, whose banter I could hear all the way from upstairs. You knew what you wanted, and you asked for it in the politest of ways. I like that in people, knowing what they want. Mostly because I am unable to say it of myself.
It took ten minutes to brew a fresh cup of coffee. From upstairs I could see you and the lads walking up the driveway getting ready to start again for the afternoon. I opened my window and yelled out, Your coffee’s almost ready. I heard the catch in my voice. You waved and said, Thank you, we’ll be right down.
At the end of the day I went to tidy up and saw your empty mug, coffee dried out at the bottom. I imagined you lifting it up to your mouth to take a sip, your arm muscles barely moving. Like they would if it was me instead of the coffee cup.
UPDATE: This weekend you were gone, but there was another Polish dude, built like a machine, looked exactly like Curtis Stone the Aussie chef. Basically: hot as fuck. He could barely speak English; when he asked me for coffee, he said so loudly, and gave me a thumbs up. After I had served the lads two rounds of snacks and drinks that day, he said to me approvingly, “Good wife”. My husband later told me that another two English words he knew were “Wet pussy”, a comment he made after the tractor picked up something wet and liquid started streaming down from the bucket.
doloresappreciationsociety 