"I’ll let my beard grow and live in the hills. Or else shave and live in the valley. Or I can stay right here, three days’ stubble at all times thanks to that razor that Ella bought me last Christmas because she likes me ‘when I look like I care but don’t care at the same time,’ and I can keep going to the ‘office,’ whatever that means now, and keep assessing project specifications, and every once in a while hop in the car with Ella and Phineas and drive down to the lake house, proud we own it, irritated I pay more than I should to do so, faintly thinking of the single mom with a house across the way, or no, not faintly thinking, but occasionally and powerfully, on account of that fifteen minutes we spent drunk at a Fourth of July barbecue, which followed an hour of starting sober and getting drunk and casually talking, but feeling the casual talk heat up a bit, ramify, tangle, to the point where we simultaneously volunteered to go inside to get more ice for the cooler, and once we were in there we touched fingertips accidentally and then did it again purposefully, staring into each others’ eyes with the fullest intent. That was all that happened but wow trust me it was enough. ‘You’d look good with a beard living in the hills,’ she said. ‘I’d rather shave and head into the valley,’ I said. I was just joking, reversing my way out of the flirtation, but I made it worse, or better, depending on how you see it. Much worse or much better. That’s why I keep thinking those are my two options, because both of them involve some idea of her. Oh I have to go. The host is starting the meeting."
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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