say it’s allergy season, and say there’s yard work to be done. and say there’s a nice man outside doing it while you’re reading or fixing something or heating onions to cook something since there’s nothing prepared to eat. and say he comes in and he’s all dust and sweat, and you’re clean and maybe smelling of cooking oil or some sugary fruit punch with strawberries. and say you’re like “c’mere”, and he comes, and he tells you about a weed jungle in a backyard a couple doors over or a strange hole by the air con unit, and say all you can hear is how he’s sniffling, “a-hem”ing and you have one of his hands. and say he gives up and sits quietly as you run your thumbs firmly down the middle of his calloused palm. say he turns his face away and his shoulders cave down as he sneezes, and before fully coming up, he sneezes again, with the force of a crashing wave. say his head slowly rises and he sniffles again, hard, and he chooses to swallow rather than move, so you do instead. say you pass him a conveniently-placed tea towel on the back of a chair by the door, and tell him to blow his nose. say he asks what’s cooking, before he blows his damned nose and you wait for a break in the tidal liquid sound before saying it’s the usual. and say you get up, while he watches with bleary eyes, as you walk into the kitchen. while he says something, complacent or kind, you find a rattling canister in the cupboard and an empty glass. and say you look back to see the folded tea towel in his hands, hiding half of his weary face. and say, perhaps, the onions are burning, but it’s fine, you’ll pretend they’re just caramelized.
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