Free Garbage Man by Joseph D'Lacey

from a thousand failed social interactions. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. What’s your name?’
    â€˜Aggie Smithfield. I live just down -’
    â€˜I know where,’ he said and immediately decided he sounded creepy rather than informed about the community. He followed up quickly, holding out his hand which, for once, was not soil-blackened. ‘I’m Mason.’
    He watched her hesitate. Something in her eyes, some need he couldn’t decipher, made her overcome any nerves she might have had. She walked back to him, boldly enough to make him retreat a fraction. Keeping his hand out was an effort. She took it before he gave in, squeezed it with adult formality.
    â€˜It’s good to meet you,’ she said and he believed she meant it. Not like the people in the old days. This one was too young to hate him or envy him or try to drain him.
    He realised he was still holding her hand and he let go quickly. He’d come too close to blowing this simple - there was nothing simple about it - interaction too many times already.
    â€˜I just wanted to talk to you,’ she said. ‘Only for five minutes. Could I come in?’
    He didn’t move.
    She gestured with her head over his garden fence, towards the landfill site.
    â€˜I wouldn’t mind chatting out here but,’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘You know . . . wind’s blowing the wrong way.’
    She was right but he wouldn’t have noticed without a reminder. To him the smell of the dump was normal. More than that; it was a comfort.
    â€˜Of course. Sorry.’
    He retreated and opened the back door of his house to a stranger - to any person - for the first time since arriving six years previously.
    For a time he stood there wondering what to do next. Where should they stand or should they sit down? What should he offer her or was that too forward, too much like . . . something? He saw the kitchen with new eyes now, her eyes, and realised she was looking at the state, not only of his house, but of his mind. This was what happened when you let people in.
    After a few moments he laughed - pure nerves - at a total loss for how to continue.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Oh, God,’ he said, finally relaxing just a little. ‘I’m very. . .’
    â€˜Used to your own company?’
    He laughed again, exposed and suddenly not minding. Not from her. She seemed so natural about it.
    â€˜Yes, that’s it. That’s it exactly. Would you like a mug of tea? I make it quite strong.’
    â€˜Do you have coffee?’
    â€˜No. Sorry.’
    â€˜Tea’s fine. I’m not stopping long, honestly. I only wanted to ask you about . . .’
    She was looking out to the hallway and stairs. She’d seen the photographs. How could she not notice them? They were everywhere except in the kitchen. He couldn’t stop himself this time. He pushed the door closed, severing her view. He didn’t know what to say. He went to the sink, feeling scrutinised, and put water in the kettle. As soon as he went to plug it in, he realised it was only enough for him; he went back to the tap to double the amount.
    â€˜Actually,’ she said. ‘It was the photos I wanted to talk to you about.’
    He spun.
    â€˜What? What do you mean, the photos?’
    â€˜Well, about all of it. You know, what you did. How you did it. I want to know about photography.’
    He stood there shaking his head. He didn’t stop shaking his head. Even after he’d said:
    â€˜I don’t want to talk about that.’
    The kettle ticked, slow at first and then faster. A sigh began inside it, rising and rising. The sigh became a rumble. There was a click. Mason stopped shaking his head but didn’t turn to pour out the water.
    â€˜I don’t want to talk about it.’
    She’ll go now, he thought. Back to her house and her family and I will not have to go through this.
    â€˜Please. I really want to