anyone asks.”
Jeremy shook his head. “No. It’s the first of the month—she’ll want that package. I’ll be by there around eleven to pick it up.”
The man laughs. “Whatever, Jeremy. I’ll see you then.”
Jeremy rides the elevator up, looking at the soft package in his hand. He shakes it, hearing the familiar rattle of pills. This is an old game, one he tired of early on. It is a game that, despite his irritation, she seems to find necessary. That’s why he didn’t push this delivery to Thursday. This package is one that has more than one recipient.
When he exits the elevator, the redheaded kid is already there, sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. His eyes light up at Jeremy’s arrival, and he shoots to his feet, fidgeting nervously. “Hey, man.” He holds his hand out for the package.
Jeremy shakes his head and knocks on the door, meeting the kid’s irritated face with a calm stare.
“Come on , man—she always says yes.”
Her voice comes through the door. “It’s okay. Give it to him.”
Jeremy holds out the package and the kid snatches it, ripping open the plastic and walking away, muttering to himself excitedly. Jeremy looks at the dead peephole, wanting to say something, anything, but he can’t think of anything. He scrawls her signature and walked away. Nothing is normal with this chick.
He steps off the elevator and strides out to his truck, the sun warm on his face. He checks his watch and grins as he pulls out. With this errand done, the day is officially his, and he pulls out his cell phone as he merges into traffic.
An hour later, he jogs onto the field, fresh-cut grass underfoot, the afternoon sun warm on his chest. Bending over, he tightens his cleats, then stands and flashes a grin at the athletic group before him. “Sorry, guys, got here as soon as I could.”
“No problem—you can just cover beers when we win,” one man says, tossing a soccer ball his way. “Let’s go kick some ass.”
The game, against a difficult opponent, stretches late, the field lights flickering on and illuminating the play as it stretches out—a tie game that neither side backs away from. And finally it happens, a perfect shot by Jeremy toward a small window of opportunity. The ball stops, its forward momentum captured and restrained. And the game is over, won by the proper victor.
He collapses on the grass, the tickle of blades gentle against his legs, the warm night allowing a breeze to float across his hot skin, his eyes opening to find a sea of stars above him.
I can’t see stars from my apartment. It’s one of the things I miss. The sun comes in the windows, the windows that don’t open. So I can see the sun’s light, feel the warmth of the glass when I press my hand to it. But the breeze is not there, and at night? The stars are blocked by the surrounding buildings. If I lie on the floor and risk neck injury by craning and twisting into some unnatural position that God never intended…then I can see a baby sliver of black night sky and occasionally a faint flicker of starlight.
But I want the whole shebang. A galaxy above me, stretching from horizon line to horizon line, one unbreaking expanse of universe that says “You are not alone.” After my family died, when I lived in my grandparents’ home, I would spend the evenings in the grass behind their house. No other homes as far as you could see, no sounds of traffic, no city lights. I would lie on the grass and look to the sky and relax. Let the stars take my pain, my agony. I would lie out there until my eyes grew heavy and I felt myself slipping off to sleep. Then I would move, quietly reentering the house, climbing the steps to my room, and crawl into bed, grass stains on my back, dirt between my toes. And I would sleep.
Maybe stars would help me at night. I shift on my bed, my nude skin sliding under the fabric of the sheets, and stare at the vaulted ceiling, wishing for about the hundredth time that I could
Jeremy shook his head. “No. It’s the first of the month—she’ll want that package. I’ll be by there around eleven to pick it up.”
The man laughs. “Whatever, Jeremy. I’ll see you then.”
Jeremy rides the elevator up, looking at the soft package in his hand. He shakes it, hearing the familiar rattle of pills. This is an old game, one he tired of early on. It is a game that, despite his irritation, she seems to find necessary. That’s why he didn’t push this delivery to Thursday. This package is one that has more than one recipient.
When he exits the elevator, the redheaded kid is already there, sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. His eyes light up at Jeremy’s arrival, and he shoots to his feet, fidgeting nervously. “Hey, man.” He holds his hand out for the package.
Jeremy shakes his head and knocks on the door, meeting the kid’s irritated face with a calm stare.
“Come on , man—she always says yes.”
Her voice comes through the door. “It’s okay. Give it to him.”
Jeremy holds out the package and the kid snatches it, ripping open the plastic and walking away, muttering to himself excitedly. Jeremy looks at the dead peephole, wanting to say something, anything, but he can’t think of anything. He scrawls her signature and walked away. Nothing is normal with this chick.
He steps off the elevator and strides out to his truck, the sun warm on his face. He checks his watch and grins as he pulls out. With this errand done, the day is officially his, and he pulls out his cell phone as he merges into traffic.
An hour later, he jogs onto the field, fresh-cut grass underfoot, the afternoon sun warm on his chest. Bending over, he tightens his cleats, then stands and flashes a grin at the athletic group before him. “Sorry, guys, got here as soon as I could.”
“No problem—you can just cover beers when we win,” one man says, tossing a soccer ball his way. “Let’s go kick some ass.”
The game, against a difficult opponent, stretches late, the field lights flickering on and illuminating the play as it stretches out—a tie game that neither side backs away from. And finally it happens, a perfect shot by Jeremy toward a small window of opportunity. The ball stops, its forward momentum captured and restrained. And the game is over, won by the proper victor.
He collapses on the grass, the tickle of blades gentle against his legs, the warm night allowing a breeze to float across his hot skin, his eyes opening to find a sea of stars above him.
I can’t see stars from my apartment. It’s one of the things I miss. The sun comes in the windows, the windows that don’t open. So I can see the sun’s light, feel the warmth of the glass when I press my hand to it. But the breeze is not there, and at night? The stars are blocked by the surrounding buildings. If I lie on the floor and risk neck injury by craning and twisting into some unnatural position that God never intended…then I can see a baby sliver of black night sky and occasionally a faint flicker of starlight.
But I want the whole shebang. A galaxy above me, stretching from horizon line to horizon line, one unbreaking expanse of universe that says “You are not alone.” After my family died, when I lived in my grandparents’ home, I would spend the evenings in the grass behind their house. No other homes as far as you could see, no sounds of traffic, no city lights. I would lie on the grass and look to the sky and relax. Let the stars take my pain, my agony. I would lie out there until my eyes grew heavy and I felt myself slipping off to sleep. Then I would move, quietly reentering the house, climbing the steps to my room, and crawl into bed, grass stains on my back, dirt between my toes. And I would sleep.
Maybe stars would help me at night. I shift on my bed, my nude skin sliding under the fabric of the sheets, and stare at the vaulted ceiling, wishing for about the hundredth time that I could
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