Free Color of Loneliness by Madeleine Beckett Page B

you refused to do by the way – or you can take a picture of him. And if you don’t, I will call your lovely neighbor, Mr. Grampie-like, and ask him to take a picture of the two of you posing together.”
    “You wouldn’t dare.”
    “Oh, yes, I would. I’m actually searching for Jim’s phone number right now on my computer.”
    Myra’s shoulders slump. She knows Susie always follows through with her threats; with no remorse whatsoever. “Fine.”
    Susie squeals in triumph. “Okay, so how old do you think he is?”
    “How am I supposed to know that?”
    “Well, he’s not Grampie-old is he? Is he close to your age, or will you be robbing the cradle?”
    “Good God. I have no idea,” Myra says. She closes her eyes and rubs one temple. “Probably around my age.”
    “Perfect. How tall is he?”
    “Taller than me.”
    “I’m calling Jim...” Susie says in a sing-song voice.
    Myra lets out a little growl. “Fine. He’s tall, all right? Over 6 foot.”
    “So is he like basketball player tall like 6’ 5” or something?”
    “No, maybe 6’ 1” or 6’ 2”. I don’t know. Besides, what does it matter?”
    “It’s important to my visualization process. Now what’s he built like? Is he all tanned and muscular like a fuckhawt construction-worker type with muscles bulging everywhere?”
    Myra rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “No. He’s more like, slim and lean.”
    “Hm. That’s different than I pictured, but it still works. So what’s his face look like?”
    Myra growls again. “I don’t know. He’s got nice eyes, a square jaw, and um, never mind.” Myra presses her palm to her forehead with her eyes closed tight, wishing she could make this all go away.
    “What?”
    “God. Okay, he has… nice lips. I cannot believe I just said that.”
    Susie giggles with delight. “Does he have good hair? What’s it look like? He’s not going bald, is he? I hate cue balls.”
    “No, he has nice hair, I guess. He’s not bald.”
    “Oh good. I…”
    “Here he comes. I’ll call you back.” Myra hastily flips her phone shut, her face flushing as Dylan knocks on the door before pushing it open.
    “I don’t wanna have to knock on your door every time. All right?” he says.
    “Mmhm, that’s fine.”
    “Your water main has a busted pipe. I should be able to fix it.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I’ll get it better insulated.”
    “Okay.”
    “I need to go get supplies then I’ll get started.”
    She nods.
    He says nothing before he abruptly turns around and exits the door.
    * * *
    Several hours later, Myra grabs a banana, taking a bite as she climbs the stairs to the second floor. Walking to the window in her bedroom, she casually pulls the curtain back an inch, her curious eyes peeking out, searching for the contractor. She sees him perched on the tailgate of his pick-up truck with his left leg up and his elbow resting on it. He has a thermos sitting beside him and a cup in his left hand. His right hand scribbles on his clipboard which lies on the tailgate beside him.
    She watches him for a few more minutes before she shakes her head at herself, and walks back down the stairs, book in tow.
    Lying on the couch, she starts reading. Sometime later, she jerks slightly when she hears his boots on the porch. He flings the door open and a cold blast of air hits her. Never glancing in her direction, he wordlessly plods down the hallway towards the downstairs bathroom. She hears the sound of air burping through a pipe before water splashes in the sink. She sits up excitedly.
    He steps back into the living room. “Got your water working. I’m gonna turn off the water to the kitchen, but the rest of the house should work,” he says before he heads swiftly out the door, leaving Myra in a gust of cold air.
    “Thank you,” she calls out to the closed door thrilled to be able to use her toilet again.
    * * *
    “Hi,” Myra whispers into her phone.
    “Why are you whispering?” Susie