Blue Flag 2020

Solitude

I press my hand against the rough wall, sliding it this way and that, and close my eyes. Linda, from woodshop. “Jesse,” she would say and hand me the sandpaper––but what color was her hair? Red? Linda with red hair would call me “Jesse,”––yes––and we were working on a shelf, no, birdhouse.

“Jesse?” She smiles and shoves my shoulder. “If you won’t sand the edges then we are going to fail,” my arm tingles where she touches it, “Brennan’s a stickler for precision.”

I laugh and grab the sandpaper, glide my hand against it, rough like the coarse wall. “So are we not going to talk about the big crush you have on me?” She blushes and pushes back her blonde hair. Pushes back her red hair.

“That’s big talk, Jesse,” she purses her lips when she pauses, “for someone who couldn’t take me on a date even if you wanted to.” No it was meaner––crueler––purposeful. She wanted to hurt me, she needed to hurt me––they were like that. Women, girls.

Cruel, and purposeful. You could give them your entire heart and they’d still reach for your wallet.

“Big talk, Linda,” I’ve got her now, “for someone who puts out in the locker room.” She stands from her chair, tears forming in her eyes, the sandpaper shifts between my fingers and I let my hand drop from the wall.

“Screw you!” She storms out of the woodshop. She probably knows now. She brings it up at book club. She and her nosy friends whisper about me. Ironic, twenty years later and I bet she talks about me. Probably regrets not going out with me. Better stories for the dinner table.

I press my hand against the cool leg of my bedframe and shut my eyes again, she’s just handed me a plate. Dinner time at the Reynolds’. Actually, she’s probably married now. He’s in finance, yes. Last name Taylor.

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