A knock, a breath, a cough to clear the crap the air the nerves.
He knows she’s blonde because he saw her move in. Saw her walk with boxes and tables and chairs.
A couch handled with a friend.
Probably a friend.
A woman the same age, too small to move furniture for a living. So he saw her blonde hair, cropped at the shoulders and ending in ringlets formed by curlers
or the air damp for the late summer season.
He saw her jeans, light blue and a little loose.
Women don’t wear jeans that loose any more.
They used to.
When he was younger and they were younger and everyone else was younger he’d walk down the hill to the Mayfair market.
Half a mile there, half a mile back,
passing at least 5, 6 women every time.
And at least one of those women would look great, with her loose jeans and loose shirt that let him wonder imagine obsess over everything beneath the fabric while he checked expiration dates and looked for flaws in ripening pears.
At least one looked great.
At least one.
And they all, almost all, damn near all looked better then he did. Better than he could get, expect, approach with steady voice and stilled eyes.
So she’s blonde and she wears the loose jeans.
Maybe the jeans were for the move, a cheap pair she could beat up and rip and scrape.
Jeans with which to paint.
Maybe they’re a necessity. Money tight, old clothes in long-term rotation…
Maybe they’re part of her character. She keeps keeps keeps anything clean and capable and able to give her what she wants, what she needs.
Guess the former, hope the latter.
A knock, a breath a cough to clear the crap the air