Silence

Another failed relationship. He couldn’t understand it.

He brewed a bit while he worked on his car. He ducked under the rusty hood and tried to install his new thermostat—only to realize he had purchased the wrong size.

He frowned, struggled to force it to fit. The part snapped into place. It’s sides cracked.

Miss Jess Ture, his housemate for the last six years, steered her bicycle up the driveway, slid to a halt, and waved to him. He returned the gesture. He almost offered a verbal greeting before he recalled that such words would prove wasted.

He wiped his oily hands off on a rag while she parked her bike inside the garage. He approached her, tossed his rag into the nearest trashcan, and used sign language to ask her how her day had gone.

She signaled back, gave him a brief description of her day at the vet clinic, where she worked. He nodded, though he didn’t pay attention to half of what she told him.

He watched her enter the house. Why couldn’t he find a nice girl like Jess?

He returned to his vehicle, slammed shut its hood, and headed inside the house. He passed through the living room, which Jess had converted into an art studio.

He showered, dried, dressed, and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. His eyes drifted across all of Jess’s health-nut foods. He cracked open his beer, enjoyed a liberal slug.

Jess, he noticed through a sliding, glass door, had changed into her blue bikini. She jumped into their pool and swam a few laps.

He watched her while he flopped onto the sofa, appreciated her curves. She always seemed cheerful and energetic. He again wondered why he couldn’t meet someone like that.

He flipped on a football game.

Jess, wrapped in a towel, entered the house fifteen minutes later. He waved at her, pointed at the television. He raised his eyebrows to indicate that his team had scored.

She half-smiled and rolled her eyes.

The game ended (well, in fact). He drained the last of his third beer and rose from the sofa. He slowed to a complete halt. Something occurred to him.

Why hadn’t he and Jess dated? They knew each other well, cohabitated without a hitch. It only made sense that they should become a couple.

He knocked on her door before he remembered that she wouldn’t hear him. He pressed the wall-mounted button that made the red light in her room flash. She, signaled by the light, opened her door with a curious expression.

He noticed, over her shoulder, the countless paintings she had produced, each based on scenes from local nature hikes.

He used sign language to propose his idea.

She blinked too many times. Bit her lower lip.

He signaled all the reasons he considered it a good idea, promised her a good time, and insisted that their friendship wouldn’t sour between them if the date went poorly.

She agreed . . . slowly.

He took her to a Bronco’s game that Sunday. He bought them both a beer and a deep-fried pretzel. She stared at the food as if he had handed her two oversized worms.

He cheered for his team. Leapt from his seat and pumped his fists whenever the Broncos scored.

. . . For some reason, Jess didn’t share his excitement.

He drove her home after the game. She faced him while she unlocked the door. He recognized her expression—two parts apology and one part annoyance.

The date hadn’t worked for her. He didn’t understand what he had done wrong. The game proved wonderful. The food great. How could the day have gone better?

He signed that he would drive around a bit. No, he didn’t feel upset. Everything remained fine between them. He just wanted to return a DVD to a Redbox stand.

She pretended to believe him.

He drove a few blocks before his car started to rattle. The engine coughed and died. Smoke poured heavenward from beneath the hood.

He pulled over, stepped out, opened his hood, and stared at the busted, new thermostat.

He guided his car to the side of the road before he checked his cellphone. His battery looked too low to complete a call.

He spotted a payphone across the street. Eyes locked on it, he stepped forward—when a hand grabbed him from behind and yanked him backwards.

A bus blasted past him. He turned his wide eyes towards the stranger (a bald man with the thick, black glasses) who saved his life. The stranger held a thin stick.

“Are you . . . blind?”

The stranger nodded. “Last time I checked.”

“How did you see the bus?”

The stranger laughed. “I listened. You can go about your business blind or deaf, but not both.” He grinned.

(Abrupt ending, I’ll admit. However, I’m on top of a snow-covered mountain—the only place around here where I can achieve Internet access—and my fingers are so numb, I’m more-or-less slapping my keyboard with the sides of my hands.

(Movie theaters don’t exist up here, so while I’m in the Rockies, I’m publishing top five lists on my other blog, moviesmartinwolt.blogspot.com, instead of movie reviews.

(The third novel in my Diaries of Darkwana series arrives this January. You can catch, in the meantime, the first book, Daughters of Darkwana, and the second, Dreamers of Darkwana on Kindle.)