My story didn’t place in the top five of vote-getters, but oh well.  What can you do?  Thanks to everyone who did take the time to vote.  It meant a lot to me.  If you haven’t gotten a chance to read it, my story is below.  There were basically three rules for the story: 1.) Less than 2,000 words, 2.) It had to open with “The robot felt”, and 3.) Had to close with “In the end, the robot felt nothing.  He wasn’t programmed to”.

—

The robot felt cool to the touch.  The silent behemoth lay motionless; one arm was pinned beneath its torso as if it had been deactivated suddenly and interrupted in mid-attack.  The ground had depressed slightly to accommodate the sudden weight of the eight foot tall, titanium-steel alloy monstrosity.  It was quite a contrast to how they usually were–whirring with a mechanical cacophony as they swept through the streets, destroying all who stood in their path.

Mac removed his hand from the robot and surveyed his surroundings.  Piles of clothes lined the road in front of deserted homes, doors left open and lights still on.  An eerie silence filled the air where once there had been frightened cries and panting breaths; the aftermath of the 8^th Robotic Company’s sweep through town.  They had already continued on their destructive way, leaving this fallen brother behind.  Mac appraised the robot carefully, trying to determine what had caused it to malfunction.  It lay on its back, lights off and unmoving.  He had seen many in his short ten years of life—the Robolution (Robotic Revolution) was the only thing on the telescreens anymore—but no Companies had yet to enter his small town.

Until now, of course.

The attack had started just a few hours ago, as citizens had sat down for their evening meal.  Mac had heard the screams and had seen people running by his windows.  His parents had been quick to act—jumping from the table and grabbing only what they had deemed to be bare necessities—bottles of water, ration bars, and credit sticks from his father, a worn photo album from his mother.  Since reports of the robots nearing their town had begun to broadcast, those items had been packed and ready to go in a small cloth knapsack that remained by the back door.  They had grabbed Mac, shaking him from his stupefaction, and had pulled him out the door into the panicked throng of people all headed away from the low, rhythmic sound of laser beams.  The stench of sweat filled the air, tickling Mac’s nose, and he pressed his face into his father’s side trying to suppress it.

Though he had known immediately that the robots were attacking, he hadn’t seen them.  Images from the telescreens allowed his imagination to produce what his eyes could not.  Massive hunks of gleaming metal, swinging heavy arms, glowing red eyes, blue beams of light that disintegrated human tissue on contact.  Behind him, the screams had intensified and the pulsing hum of the lasers could be heard overhead.  Mac’s father had grabbed his hand and pulled him, urging him to run faster.  On Mac’s left, bright blue light had engulfed a woman who then vanished suddenly with a dry pffffft, leaving a small pile of clothing on the ground where she had last stood.  She hadn’t even had time to make a sound.

“Run, Mac!” his father had yelled.  “Don’t look back!”

Terrified, Mac had dropped his father’s hand and ran for his life.  His strong legs had carried him through the small streets, past his neighbors and friends, past the outskirts of the village.  Only once he realized that he had entered the wasteland did he stop running.  He had been alone.

“Father?” he had called tentatively.  “Mother?”  He could see no one behind him.  The screams had stopped.  The ground had rumbled softly as the robots continued to move, but otherwise the evening was silent.  He had cautiously returned to the edge of town and poked his head through the open gate of the fourteen-foot wall that encased the village.  The sun had begun to set, casting an ominous orange glow on the quiet town where Mac had spent his entire life.

He waited as minutes turned into hours, hiding behind some bushes along the wall when he had thought he heard the Company approaching, but they never came within sight of the town’s edge.  Finally, the rumbling had grown softer until it had vanished completely.  Mac had gathered up what little courage he had and headed back inside the village to find his parents.

Clothing and shoes had been strewn throughout the roads.  Boxes, suitcases, hats, anything a person might have decided to carry along with them as they escaped now littered the ground.  The street lights had flickered on as dusk settled in, bathing Mac in a harsh yellow glare.  He had backtracked the way he had come, scanning every nook and cranny for his parents and praying that they had escaped or hidden away somewhere.

He had found the knapsack in the middle of the road, not far from where Mac had let go of his father’s hand.  The photo album was peeking out of the bag and Mac had grabbed it, clutching it to him.  He had furiously blinked back tears and, as he had looked away from the last place his parents had stood, he saw the fallen robot.

Now, he grew angry with the robot and kicked its side.  A deep clang echoed down the street as his shoe made contact with hard metal.  Mac kicked it again and again, cursing it and its kind for their existence.  He could not scratch or dent the hard metal casing no matter how hard he tried.  He fell to his knees, exhausted and weeping.  Through his tears he began to hear a series of klikks and whirrs.  The robot before him stirred and began to move.  Mac stared as it rose to its full height of eight feet.  The robot looked down, casting his blood-red stare at the boy before him.  An arm, which housed the laser beam, rose and pointed directly at the boy.

“Please,” Mac said.  “Please don’t.”  He squeezed the photo album to his chest and hugged it.

The robot seemed to pause, as if considering the plea for mercy.  A bright blue flash of light snaked from the mechanical arm as the boy disappeared in the wake of the laser beam.  The robot stood there, watching as the beam dissipated.  The album lay open upon the ground where it had fallen.  He picked it up carefully, scrutinizing the pictures within.

In the end, the robot felt nothing.  He wasn’t programmed to.

 I am in love with someone I can never see again.

She is beauty personified. If you could bottle all that is good and pure and right with the world and mix it into some sort of shampoo and shower with it, then you would almost be equal to my soul mate.

Her name is Sarah.

I remember the first day I saw her–it was six months ago at the beginning of our Intro to Still Life drawing class. She walked in, awkwardly carrying her drawing tablet and book bag and dropped everything at the desk next to mine. I gulped, wanting to help her retrieve her spilled graphite pencils from the floor but could not move. She was captivating.

She looked at me, very much in a “aren’t you going to help me?” manner and I sprang into action. I picked up her erasers and pencils and handed them to her as she sat down in her seat.

“Here you go,” I said. I surprised myself at having vocalized actual words. I had almost expected various grunts to erupt from my mouth promptly upon speaking.

“Yeah, thanks.”

She spoke to me! What joyous day!

“My name is Paul,” I said. I extended my hand to her, hoping she would shake my hand and I could have a brief excuse to touch her, even if for an instant.

She reached out and shook my hand. The mere feel of her palm against mine sent goose bumps up and down my body. I knew she felt the same–we were soul mates. Two bodies sharing one soul. Destined to go through this life with each other.

“Sarah,” she replied.

For days I would doodle her name in my notebooks, drawing hearts around her name and mine together. I never showed her of course, but I knew she would have approved. I figured she was even doing the same thing in her own notebooks–perhaps making guesses at my last name and affixing it to hers to see how it looked.

The professor began class, but I could barely concentrate of what he was saying. I kept Sarah in my peripheral vision, watching her tuck a strand of light brown hair behind her ear or chew on the end of her pen.

In the middle of class, she turned to me and whispered, “Do you have any gum?”

I didn’t and apologized profusely for this oversight. I made a mental note to go to 7-11 and buy gum the second I was out of class. I decided to buy several brands, in several flavors each, so that I could offer her an assortment if she ever asked me again.

I was in love.

After three weeks of sitting next to her in class, waiting for her to ask for more gum, she finally pulled me aside to confront her growing attraction.

“Why do you stare at me?” she asked. She had a wonderfully honest quality about her and could always be relied upon to tell you like it was. It was one of the things I loved about her.

“You’re beautiful,” I replied. There was no point in hiding my feelings from her, especially when she was my soul mate. She may not have known it consciously then, but she felt the same about me.

She blinked, clearly pleased with my reply. So I continued, “Will you have dinner with me?”

“Will it get you to stop staring at me in class?”

I nodded. “Promise.”

“I guess.”

We had dinner together two nights later. I made reservations at the best restaurant I could afford and wore my best dress shirt and tie. We met in the lobby of her dorm. When she exited the elevators and walked toward me, I could barely breathe, I was so overcome by her beauty.

She wore jeans and a baby blue t-shirt. Though I had never told her, on some level she must have known that blue was my favorite color. We were mentally attuned to each other, which is common for soul mates.

“Well, let’s get going,” she said, having reached me.

I was as eager to begin our date as she was and I nodded, holding the doors open for her and following her out to the street. I was impressed with the speed with which she hailed a cab and I climbed in behind her, giving the necessary directions to the driver.

“I hope you like Asian food,” I said. I knew she would–she was my other half.

She shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“You look great.”

She looked me up and down, her satisfaction evident on her face. “Yeah, you look okay, too.”

I wanted to hold her hand but she must have been a little chilly in just her t-shirt, because she kept her arms crossed over her chest the entire time. It made me wish I had brought along my jacket. I had spent ten or fifteen minutes debating the jacket and decided that it was too formal. I wanted this date to be lighthearted and not get too serious too quickly. Next time I’d bring the jacket, just in case.

I leaned forward to the driver. “Can you turn the heat on, please?”

The driver gave me an odd look, which I can understand as it was the end of August, but reached over and turned the heat on anyway. I leaned back into my seat, confident that I’d given a message to Sarah that I could anticipate her needs and would do everything in my power to accommodate her. It’s what you do when you love someone, after all. She looked out the window, not able to make eye contact, but I knew she was touched.

She was still touched during dinner. She buried herself behind her menu. The poor thing; she was overcome with emotion.

I was able to draw her out once we had received our drink orders. She was a pretty stronger drinker, which I admire in a woman. I was half-way through my first beer when she ordered her second glass of wine. I was impressed.

We bonded as dinner progressed–she opened up more and more as we ate and I asked her as many questions as I could. I wanted to know everything there was to know about her. She spent a lot of time talking about her ex-boyfriend and what a horrible person he was. I listened attentively, loving the shapes her mouth made as she talked.

Time flew by and the waiter handed me the bill before Sarah had finished talking about Michael (the ex).

The bill was a little more than I had expected, she had had quite a bit of wine, but I didn’t mind. It was worth the hundred and fifty dollars to spend that hour and fifteen minutes with her. And I knew she was grateful to me, because she was more touchy-feely as we left. She leaned against me while I hailed another cab home. I inhaled deeply, getting a whiff of the Chicago city street, but also the faint smell of her shampoo which smelled like vanilla.

She laughed a lot in the cab. I’m not exactly sure why, because I hadn’t said anything funny. But then she leaned in and gave me the softest, most wonderful kiss I had ever had. I no longer cared why she had been laughing. All that mattered was that I had made her happy.

“I am falling in love with you, Sarah,” I said to her, softly so that the driver couldn’t overhear.

She laughed again and put a hand on my arm. “You’re cute, Paul. Do you live in the dorm?”

I shook my head. “No, I have an apartment.”

She kissed my cheek. “It’s still early. Let’s go there.”

I don’t remember much after that. I’m vaguely aware of the cab stopping in front of my building, and I’m pretty sure I paid him because he didn’t get out of the cab and swear at me. We must have taken the elevator to my floor because I live on the twelfth floor and Sarah seemed to have some trouble with her feet. But the second my apartment door shut Sarah pounced on me my perception shifted from hazy to crystalline. She pushed me until my legs connected with the back of the couch and we fell into it, our mouths somehow never breaking contact as we fell. Sarah laughed briefly against me but stopped as I ran my hands through her hair. The smell of vanilla washed over me and I inhaled deeply, wanting the sweet fragrance, and this moment, to burn itself into my memory forever and ever.

With a strength far superior to my own, she straddled me and pinned me against the couch. I have no idea how long we kissed. Both my feet went numb from lack of circulation, but I didn’t care–I couldn’t stop kissing her. She tasted like wine and the lobster she had had for dinner, but mostly the wine. I felt as if I, too, were drunk though I had only had the two beers. She pulled her t-shirt off over her head, exposing a lacy pink bra—my eyes drank in the skin of her stomach, never before seen. As her fingers fumbled at my belt and pants zipper, all thought promptly left my mind.

Afterward, Sarah stood. She pulled on her jeans and ran a quick hand through her hair. “I should go.”

“I’ll get you a cab.”

She nodded and we were out the door and going down the elevator. I grimaced as the pins and needles reminded me that I still had legs. The elevator dinged its descent and she watched the numbers as they illuminated their way toward the lobby.

“Tonight was amazing,” I said.

“Thanks for everything, Paul,” she replied. She was so polite.

I walked her through the lobby to the street where a cab sat at the red light on the corner. I opened the door for her. “See you in class Monday?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Goodnight, Sarah.”

“Yeah.”

Our class ended a few weeks later, but we continued to date for another month before I started to get the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. She seemed to enjoy herself when we would go out, and we ended every date with sex, but she got increasingly distant. It became harder and harder to get a hold of her, even though she was seldom without her cell phone, and longer and longer between my voicemails and her call backs.

One day during class I received a text message from her, which simply read: “Paul, let’s go out for dinner tonight. I think we need to talk.”

I’d been dating long enough to know that this never indicated good news. I was also fairly certain she’d faked her last couple of orgasms. Given that, and this message, I knew that she was going to break things off. I panicked. I didn’t want her to walk out of my life and I had no idea how to keep her, so I did the only thing I could think of: nothing. I didn’t text her back. And I didn’t answer my cell when she called later that day.

A week passed and she continued to call. I eventually switched off my phone. She would never end things in a voicemail, so if I could avoid a real face-to-face encounter with her, she couldn’t dump me.

We will be together forever.

I just can’t ever see her again.

I fear someone will discover the body soon.

 I blinked, disbelieving the words written in that flowery, female hand.  I surreptitiously glanced farther to my right, to the woman I had sat beside on the crowded train.

 She was crying, and obviously so.  She clutched tightly at the worn and weathered tissue in her hand, using it every few moments to dab at her watering eyes or hastily wipe at her nose before returning to the journal in her lap.

 I looked away, faking an intense interest in brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from my tie.  This wasn’t any of my business.  And I was sure that what I had read had to be taken out of context.  It was a journal entry, after all, and perhaps it was a meaningful line from her book reading or a trite explosion of emotion after a bad breakup.  She couldn’t actually be referring to a dead, human body.

 I was nearly elbowed in the head by a standing passenger when the conductor came on the speaker system, his voice far too cheerful for that of a Chicago train conductor.  “I know we’re a little more crowded than usual, but let’s all try to squeeze in!  We’re extra busy due to a traffic accident back on State Street and people were rerouted from the buses.  Thanks folks!”

 There were murmurs throughout the train, speculating on the amount of damage in the wreck or complaining about the cramped space in the train.  I heard the woman behind me talking to her friend.  “There were at least twenty cars involved, you know.  I had to hang up my cell phone because of all the fire trucks—couldn’t hear a thing!”

 Her companion agreed.  “State Street is bad enough during rush hour as it is.  Do you remember when we waited…”

 I tuned them out and felt my eyes slide slowly back to the woman’s journal entry.

 I know I should confess, but it was an accident.  What will happen when they find out?

 Okay, so she wasn’t waxing poetic over a broken heart.  Whatever act this woman had been a part of had left her despairing.  Her body was wracked with silent sobs as she wrote.  Other people began to notice, casting her mixed looks of sympathy and distaste.  They looked at me as well, as if it were my appointed job as Closest-Person-in-Proximity to this sobbing mess of a woman to do something about it.
 I fished through my suit jacket pocket for the small pack of tissues I always carried; spring was a nightmare for my allergies.  I cleared my throat and handed her the entire pack. 

 “I think you need these more than I do,” I said warmly. 

She jerked upright, as if realizing for the first time that she wasn’t alone on the subway train.  The journal closed with a slap.  She cast me a cautious glance and slowly took the proffered tissues.

“Thank you,” she sniffed.  Stuffing her used tissue into her pants pocket, she opened the pack to withdraw a new one, promptly blowing her nose loudly into it.

“Are you all right?” I asked.  Stupid question, I know, but it was a more appropriate lead-in than, “So I noticed you accidentally killed something or someone.  How’s that going for you?”

“I’m fine.”  Bad lie.  We both knew it.  “I mean, I will be fine,” she corrected.

“Okay.”  I let the subject drop.  Because really, it wasn’t my business.  And if there was a body in a freezer somewhere, I’m better off not knowing.

She went to return the package of tissues to me, but I waved a hand nonchalantly.  “Please, keep them.”

“Thank you,” she said again.

A minute of silence passed between us, the rhythmic clanging from the train helping to eradicate the silence that might have otherwise been a little awkward.

“Do you work in the city?” I asked her, not being able to help myself.  It was partly out of concern for her well-being, but mostly my own morbid curiosity as to whether or not a real dead body was involved.  I willed her to tell me as I sat there, waiting for a response.

“No,” she replied.

I turned away and silently cursed my telepathic abilities.

“My husband did.”

“Did?”  I tried not to sound too hopeful.

“I mean, does,” she said quickly.  “He still works there; he’s just not my husband anymore.”

“Ah, I’m divorced too.”

“We aren’t divorced yet.  Just separated.”  She looked at her watch.  “For about fifteen minutes now.”

I blinked.  “Does he—well—does he know?”

“Not yet.”

“Wow.”  Smooth one.  I was amazing with the ladies, I tell you what.

 “Yeah.”

 “So that would explain why you’re going through all my tissues.”  I attempted a joke because I had nothing encouraging or relevant to say.  Honestly, the first thing that popped into my head was Little Orphan Annie singing “the sun’ll come out tomorrow,” but that wasn’t going to do anyone any good.

 She looked down at her journal.  “That’s not why I was crying.”

 “Oh, sorry.  I know it’s not my business.”

 She attempted a watery smile and shook her head.  “You are very nice.”

 I shrugged.

 The train stopped, relieving itself of a large number of passengers.  There was an open seat several rows ahead and I wondered if I should move.  The woman had finally seemed to collect herself and our conversation had died.  Would she want me to move?  As the train started again, I tightened my hand around the handle of my briefcase and readied myself to stand when I felt the woman place a hand on my arm.

 “Can I tell you something?  I have to tell somebody.”

 I swallowed.  Here it was.  I began to imagine that she had discovered her husband was having an affair with the cleaning lady and had bludgeoned her to death with a handheld mini-vac.  Then she had shoved the body into the broom closet and hopped the first subway out of town.  I needed to sit down with my overactive imagination and have a chat.

 “My husband was cheating on me.”

 Or maybe not.

 She swallowed.  “I found out this morning.  He left his cell phone at home and She called.  ‘Pamela’ flashed on the caller I.D. screen and I didn’t know any Pamelas.  I was curious.  I listened to the voicemail.”

 “Ah,” I supplied helpfully.  Yep, a real charmer.

 “She was finalizing their plans for this weekend—plans that involved her wearing skimpy black lingerie, by the sound of it.  He told me it was a business trip.  Can you believe that?”

 I committed treason against my sex and agreed that men were scum.

 “I’d always suspected, of course.  But here was my proof.  I was furious, and I wasn’t thinking, and I opened the balcony door and threw his cell phone out as hard as I could.”

 “Into your back yard?”

 “I live on the thirty-second floor.”

 “I see.”  I cleared my throat.  “That’s illegal, you know.”

 “That’s the least of my problems.  Toby, my husband’s bulldog, thought I had thrown a ball and jumped over the railing after it.” A tear formed in the corner of her eye.  “I tried to grab him by his collar as he shot by me, but…”

 “My God, that’s… that’s horrible.”

 “I’m sure my husband will think I did it on purpose to get even with him.  I have always hated that dog.  But I would never hurt him intentionally.”

 I nodded.  “So tell your husband the dog simply got loose.”

 She dropped her hands helplessly into her lap, her knuckles knocking against the hard cover of the journal.  “That’s pretty much impossible.”

“Why?”

“I live on State Street.”

 My husband cheated on me for a full six months and I had no idea.

He always worked insane hours but since he aimed to be a partner at a prestigious Manhattan law firm I accepted it as all part of the job description. The letter from his assistant, which arrived one afternoon in July, caught me completely off guard.

The envelope was of plain white card stock; “Elizabeth Mitchell” scrawled across the front in thick, blue marker. The handwriting was distinctly feminine and I frowned as I tore open the flap and pulled out the single sheet of paper. A note, in that same female hand, was inside.

Mrs. Mitchell,

Your husband and I have been sleeping together since February. I’ve broken it off, and I’m so sorry. You were always so nice to me.

Ashley

I vaguely remembered her from the last Christmas party. She had been very petite, very blonde (they were always blonde), and very perky—my very opposite.

Jack was still at work and so I did the only thing I could think of: I placed the letter in the middle of the dining room table, grabbed my purse, and left the house. I spent the rest of the day in a library perusing the “New in Fiction” section, waiting for him to get home and discover the letter. I was halfway through a Grisham novel when the cell phone in my purse rang. It was him, calling from home. I wanted to answer but stopped. Would he deny it? Admit it? Would either matter?

The call went to voicemail. I watched the phone until it beeped, indicating the new message. I picked it up and dialed into my voicemail—my husband’s voice came on the line; he sounded panicked.

“Lizzie, baby, come home. Give me a chance to explain, okay?”

How do you explain cheating on your wife? I wondered. I deleted the message and as I placed the phone back into my purse it rang again. I had to answer eventually.

“Yeah?”

“Lizzie! Listen, that bitch is lying!”

There it was. No explanation. No apology. Flat denial. I flinched at his anger and held the phone away from my ear to protect my eardrum.

“I fired her today and she’s trying to get back at me!”

I didn’t know what to say. Except, “I don’t believe you.”

“Shit, Lizzie, I swear I never touched her! Drew can back me up on this. Ask him!”

Drew was his college buddy and fellow lawyer at the firm. Of course he would back him up whether Jack had actually cheated on me or not. His sheer desperation came through the phone in waves—he was screwed and he knew it.

“Honey, please come home. I love you.” His voice had grown quieter; the indignant tone replaced by one more obsequious. “Please say something.”

“I’m not coming home, Jack.”

“Sweetie, you’re confused and hurt. I understand. But we can’t do this over the phone, Lizzie.”

“Do what?”

“I’m not going to lose you in a damn phone call,” he spat. “Now come home so we can talk!”

Tears ran down my cheeks, unnoticed. “No, Jack, you won’t lose me in a phone call. You lost me when you started screwing your assistant.” I closed the phone, ignoring the concerned looks of the other library patrons, and stood up. On my way out the door I dropped the cell phone, which had begun to ring again, into the trashcan.

That was a little under a year ago.

I left New York to travel throughout the Midwest, leasing dingy apartments month to month. Moving had been a lot easier than I would have thought. I had given up my old life for Jack, so after the marriage dissolved there wasn’t much else for which to stay around. A few weeks ago I read an article in a travel magazine featuring Portland, Oregon and decided to go.

I now lived in a small bungalow in Sherwood, a suburb outside Portland (bought and paid for with part of Jack’s generous divorce settlement). My new home was sparsely furnished; the only mementos from my old life were my books and a silver-framed photograph of my parents, both of which had long since passed. The picture had been taken only a few weeks before they were killed in a car accident. I’ve memorized my parents smiling faces and the way my father’s hand rested comfortably on my mother’s shoulder—like it wouldn’t ever belong anywhere else. I was the spitting image of her, from her piercing green eyes to her soft, black hair.

I was happy in Portland, or at least as happy as I thought I’d ever be. I’d picked up the pieces left of myself from my failed marriage and scotch-taped them back together. And I had gotten a goldfish.

₪₪₪₪₪

Dan wiped a few drops of sweat from his brow as he packed up the last of his tools into the back of the SUV.

“Dan!”

He squinted in the sunlight to see a blonde woman coming toward him through the graveled driveway, teetering precariously in her pink high heels. She smiled as she tilted her face up at him—not in the way most people did, as his six-and-a-half feet tended to tower over them, but in an attempt to be seductive. Inwardly, Dan cringed.

“Can I buy you a drink?” she asked. “I appreciate all the hard work you did today.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” he replied, avoiding the question. “That’s my job.”

He owned a small carpentry business, something passed on from his father, and the recently divorced woman had “needed” a tree house for her son.

“Are you sure?” she asked, slightly crestfallen.

Dan rubbed his cheek a few times and made a mental note that he needed to shave. “Yeah, I have a couple more projects I need to work on today.” He headed around the SUV to the driver’s side door. “But thanks for the offer.”

She nodded, letting him pass without pressing the issue further. She watched the dark blue SUV until it turned around the corner and drove out of sight.

Inside, Dan shook his head. It had only been a matter of time before he’d have to turn her down. She’d been making her intentions clear for the past few weeks. At least her son had gotten a tree house out of it.

It wasn’t that Dan wasn’t interested in women—he definitely was. The right one just hadn’t come along. His girlfriend in college had been everything he’d thought a woman should be: beautiful, intelligent, and loving. She had gone to grad school and decided that Dan, who had dropped out before his senior year to take over the family business, wasn’t her future. Matthew, a fellow grad student, apparently was. Dan, who had been preparing to propose, found out about the relationship from her roommate.

He pulled into his driveway and noticed his neighbor, a woman who had recently moved in two houses down from him, unloading groceries from her car. He watched her for a moment, amused, as she tried to carry as many bags as humanly possible. He switched off the ignition and got out of the vehicle.

“Hey,” he said, raising a hand in greeting.

She looked over her shoulder quickly, nearly dropping a bag in the process. “Hello.”

Dan took a couple steps toward her. “Need some help?”

“I got it, thanks.” She didn’t look at him again. She moved to the house, arms full. One of the smaller bags fell unnoticed from her arms as she circled around the house to the back door.

Dan trotted through the yard separating their houses and picked up the bag, waiting until she reemerged. Moments later she came back around the corner and stopped, surprised to see him standing in her driveway.

He smiled sheepishly at her. “You dropped this.”

She took the bag from him slowly, as though she thought he might bludgeon her with it as soon as hand it over. She studied him for a quick moment—his short sandy-colored hair and clear, blue eyes. “Thank you.”

He held out his now-free hand in greeting. “I’m Dan. I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself since you moved in. I live two houses over.” He indicated with his head toward his home.

She paused, then took his hand and shook it. “Elizabeth.”

He looked into the trunk of her car and noticed a few more grocery bags. “I’ll get the rest of these for you.”

“You don’t have to,” she started to protest, but the bags were already in his hands and he slammed the trunk shut. “Okay.” She circled around the house and held the back door open for him as he stepped inside.

He placed the bags inside and took a sweeping glance around her kitchen/living room. “Empty” put it mildly. A brown leather couch occupied the far living room wall, and a bookshelf stood in one of the four corners. There was a small lamp to one side of the couch.

The kitchen was in much the same condition. Dishes took up one of the cupboards, leaving the rest to collect dust. He peeked in as she opened her refrigerator to start putting away some of the cold items. It contained a half-full jar of pickles and a ketchup bottle. A lonely looking goldfish swam lazily in a glass bowl on the otherwise bare counter across from the refrigerator.

“That’s Mr. Fish,” she said, looking over her shoulder to see what he was looking at.

“Mr. Fish?”

“I’m not good at naming things. My husband used to joke that our kids would all have numbers instead of names.” Her smile faded and she shook her head. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure.”

She looked around the kitchen, embarrassed. “The only thing cold is water.”

He smiled, trying to warm her to him. “Water is great.”

She filled a glass with ice and water from the faucet. After handing it to him, she returned to the groceries.

“Is a lot of your stuff still in storage?” he asked, after taking a sip.

“What?”

“Your home is pretty empty,” he remarked. “I just figured you weren’t completely settled in yet.”

“This is everything.”

He took another sip of water and watched her put food items into the fridge. He watched her lean frame as it bent down to retrieve items of food and stretched to place them on upper shelves. “He left you.”

She flinched and slowly turned to face him. He fought an urge to hug her and wondered from where it had come.

“I left him.”

“He cheated on you.”

“Yeah.” She studied him for another moment. “Is it obvious?”

He shrugged. “Like recognizes like.”

She returned to the groceries, moving from the refrigerator to one of the bare cupboards. “Ah. So your wife was a cheater.”

“Girlfriend. We weren’t married yet.”

“Thank goodness for small favors,” she replied wryly.

He laughed. “It’ll get better.”

She stopped again, and looked at him curiously. “Who are you?”

He shrugged again. “I’m Dan. I live two houses down. Speaking of which…” He set the glass down onto the counter. “Thanks for the water, Elizabeth. It was good to finally meet you.” He held out his hand again, and she shook it more quickly this time.

“Likewise,” she replied politely.

₪₪₪₪₪

“She’s hot.”

Dan shot a look across his kitchen table to his brother, Kevin, who was sitting sprawled out on the other side. They usually had dinner together on Friday nights—it had become a tradition when their father had passed away Dan’s senior year of college.

“What? Just because I’m married I can’t notice women?”

“I don’t know. Let’s ask Mary what she thinks.”

“Yeah, let’s not.” Kevin muttered sullenly. “What’s her name?”

“Elizabeth,” Dan replied. “I didn’t get her last name.”

“Divorced?”

Dan nodded. “He cheated on her.”

“Damn.” Kevin stabbed his fork into his spaghetti thoughtfully. “So when are you going out with her?”

“I’m not.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you again.”

“That was six years ago, bro. When are you going to get over her?”

“It’s really not about that this time.”

“Whatever. Then go out with Elizabeth.”

“No, she doesn’t want that.” Dan pushed his half-finished plate away from him.

“Says who? You’re not all that ugly. For a butthead,” he amended.

Dan stood up and carried his plate to the sink. From his window he could see Elizabeth’s backyard. The summer grass was starting to get out of control. He wagered she didn’t even own a lawnmower. “There’s just something about her.”

“Ah yes, that elusive ‘thing’.”

“I just want to know her.”

Kevin brought his own plate over and placed it on the counter. “And you’re off to such a great start.”

Dan smacked his brother in the arm.

“So what’s your big idea?”

Dan looked back out the window. “I’m still working on it.”

₪₪₪₪₪

I rolled over in bed and tried to ignore the incessant buzzing sound from outside. Why do people feel the need to cut their grass so early? I thought as I pressed my head deeper into my pillow. Granted it was eleven o’clock, but it was a Saturday—a day meant for sleeping in.

Twenty minutes later I gave up and went into the kitchen to start some coffee. I had left the kitchen windows open during the night and the drone from the lawnmower was even louder. The coffee started to percolate, and as I yawned I looked out the window. Shocked, I opened the door and started walking quickly toward Dan—the cause of the noise. He was pushing a small mower through my yard. He smiled and stopped the machine as I approached.

“Good morning,” he said. Though it was still relatively cool, beads of sweat had begun to break out over his forehead from working in the bright sunlight.

“What are you doing?” I blurted. “You’re mowing my yard.”

He took a step over to me and whispered. “You took my answer.”

“But why?”

“’Cause it needed it.”

“Oh.” I looked up at him, feeling confused. “Do you, uh, need anything?”

“Another glass of water would be nice.”

“Okay.”

I rushed back into my kitchen, which now had that lovely coffee smell to it. As I filled a glass with ice water I realized, for the first time, what I must look like. I was still wearing my pajamas—blue Capri yoga pants and a gray tank top. And my hair was a mess.

“Stop it. He doesn’t care,” I muttered to myself. I carried the glass of water back outside and handed it to Dan, who had been waiting patiently next to the mower. He drained it quickly and handed it back.

“Thanks.”

“Um, I’m going to go back inside now,” I said, indicating my house with a thumb over my shoulder.

He smiled, his eyes teasing. “Okay. I’m going to stay out here now.”

“Yeah.”

Once inside, I went upstairs to take a quick shower and get dressed—the coffee forgotten. By the time I was out of the bathroom, Dan had finished with the yard and was nowhere to be seen. And I had never thanked him.

I left the house quickly and strode to his front door, though once I reached his porch I felt some of my resolve melting away. I was coming over to just say thanks? I stopped on the porch and vacillated between taking those three extra steps to his door and fleeing back to my house when the front door opened suddenly and Dan stepped out, looking as surprised to see me as I was him.

“Wantedtosaythankyou,” I blurted out in classic Elizabeth style. “I was surprised to find you in my backyard like that and forgot to say it before.”

He nodded and quickly ran one hand back and forth through his own freshly washed hair, sending droplets of water flying onto the porch. “I was happy to do it.”

I forced a tentative smile of my own as the realization dawned that I had nothing else to say to him. “Okay. Well. Bye.” I turned to leave but felt a hand on my arm stopping me.

“You want to get some lunch?”

₪₪₪₪₪

Dan glanced across the front seat of his SUV at Elizabeth. She sat quietly, watching the rain fall outside the window. The sunny morning had quickly turned into a rainstorm as they had sat in the restaurant. Her damp hair had curled—clinging to her head in thick strands and her cheeks were flushed, both from embarrassment at the current silence and the run from the restaurant to the car. Dan couldn’t remember seeing anyone more beautiful.

“It’s getting pretty bad,” she observed.

“This is nothing. Wait until the fall.”

As he spoke, the floodgates opened and torrents of rainwater descended onto the vehicle. Dan’s visibility was severed to only ten or fifteen feet and he eased off of the accelerator, letting the car slow naturally, instead of hitting the brakes.

“Ah, perfect timing.”

“Maybe we should pull over and wait it out,” Elizabeth suggested.

“I think you might be on to something.” Dan continued letting the SUV coast and pulled off onto the shoulder. There were no other cars around on this back road, but he turned on his emergency lights to make sure they weren’t hit from behind by an unobservant driver.

They looked at each other for a few moments, and Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Thanks again for lunch, but I—”

“You’re welcome.” Rain sluiced over the windshield in a steady curtain of water, and Dan cleared his throat as he looked out at the water-blurred landscape. “So what made you decide to pick Sherwood?”

“It felt right. I don’t have any family left and I’d never lived on the West Coast. And,” she smiled, “it’s about as far away from my ex as I could get. You know, without moving to Alaska or something.”

“I wish I had done that. Would’ve saved some heartache at any rate.”

“She really did a number on you,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Here you are—this incredibly nice, good-looking guy who must have women knocking down his door, but you’ve been single since her.”

“There aren’t any women knocking down my door,” Dan countered. “And I’m not that nice.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh right. There’re tons of people who just randomly mow their neighbors’ lawns. You’re perfectly normal.”

He laughed—a happy, booming sound—and Elizabeth couldn’t help but join in. “At the risk of falling off this pedestal of niceness, I don’t randomly mow yards.”

“No?”

“I thought it would be a way to get to know you. Make you think I’m this incredibly nice, good-looking guy.”

“So you’re scheming your niceness.”

“Yep.”

“Well, at least you plan ahead.”

He smiled. “So what if I made plans for us to go out tomorrow? Food could be involved again. Or just a movie. I’ll try not to get us stuck in another thunderstorm.”

The smile faltered on Elizabeth’s face, and she quickly looked away from him. “Oh…I don’t think…”

“I won’t bite.” He raised his right hand. “Scout’s honor.”

“Dan, you are really nice, but—”

“I never understood that one,” he replied quickly, not wanting to give her a chance to refuse him. “Women always say that when they’re trying to say no. But the fact that the guy is nice should make them want to say yes, don’t you think?”

She turned red but remained silent.

“But you can’t blame a guy for trying,” he continued with a shrug. “I was just thinking, ‘Dan, you know this beautiful, intelligent woman who just moved into town, which means there isn’t any competition yet. If you don’t at least take the opportunity and ask her to do something, you’ll have confirmed your loserness for all time.’”

Elizabeth laughed, his demeanor visibly easing her tension. “Surely not for all time.”

“Well, for a while anyway.”

“I just don’t think I should.”

“Do you not like movies?” he asked innocently.

“You know it’s not that, I—”

“How about this: you go to a movie tomorrow afternoon. I’ll come in and sit next to you. I might share my popcorn, but I might not. We’ll watch the movie and afterward go our separate ways—if you want. You wouldn’t even have to talk to me unless I shared some popcorn. Then I’d expect a thank you.” He remained straight-faced, though he had that teasing look in his eyes.

She opened her mouth to refuse him again but stopped. Dan watched her, waiting patiently and hoping she’d change her mind.

“How would you know which movie I went to?”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “I’d probably have to buy tickets to all of them and look in each theater one-by-one. Would you agree to wear an over-sized, goofy hat to help me pick you out in the crowd?”

She shook her head. “I hate over-sized, goofy hats.”

“That would make things harder for me.”

She looked out the window, thinking over his offer. Dan only slightly noticed that the downpour had ended as quickly as it had begun. Droplets of water rolled down the windshield as the sun launched an attempt to scatter the dark rain clouds.

“Dan,” she began. She swallowed. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

He started the car and resumed driving home on the still-deserted road. “Here you are–this nice, attractive woman who does have guys knocking down her door, but you’ve been single since him.”

Elizabeth blinked and looked down at her hands, her face reddening once again.

₪₪₪₪₪

My sleep was again interrupted early Sunday morning, not from the sound of a lawnmower, but by pangs of remorse. I’d been mentally kicking myself since stepping out of Dan’s car. I remained in bed and looked up at the ceiling. I was terrified at the thought of letting a man into my life again—someone else to sleep with an Ashley. I knew I wasn’t strong enough to go through it all again.

Knowing sleep would not be returning, I threw off the sheet and dragged myself from bed. Mr. Fish greeted me enthusiastically (which isn’t saying much, fish-wise) when I entered the kitchen and peppered his bowl with fish flakes. He kept an eye on me as he munched his food.

“What are you looking at?” I muttered.

He flapped his gills knowingly in response.

“You just swim around in your little bowl all day. What do you know about it?”

He circled the bowl once as if in agreement. He stilled again and resumed looking at me, opening and closing his gills in his fishy wisdom.

“Okay, so maybe Dan wouldn’t be another Ashley-sleeper,” I conceded.

Mr. Fish flicked a fin.

I crossed the living room to the bathroom. Movement from my front yard stopped me and I veered away from the bathroom to the living room window, amused. Dan was bent over in my drive way, scrubbing the side of my car. A bucket of soapy water stood next to him and it looked like there was just as much of the water on him as the car.

I smiled.