Thank you for editing, Pixel.
*****
He lives down the hall from me. His hair is shaggy and blonde, sometimes hanging messily over his blue eyes. A scar splits his right eyebrow in half. Tattered jeans and block colored t-shirts appear to be the only clothing he owns.
He moved in a month ago and through gossip I've learned he's an amiable guy, working as a teacher. Mainly he keeps to himself. Something about him disturbs me—the way he walks, how his calculating blue eyes take in everything around him in one rapid swoop, the weird hours he keeps—but my landlady says he's a Good Guy.
I catch him one day, helping her climb the stairs. He doesn't speak to her but he gives her a smile before he walks away.
I wouldn't know what a "Good Guy" looks like, but I'll take her word for it.
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Everything goes in slow motion—cars passing in the street, mosquitoes buzzing in my ear at night, summer rain tinkling down whenever it gets too hot. Nothing much is happening, but that's how I prefer my summers.
I sit outside with the kids that live in my building on dry nights, teasing them and playing games. It's the most fun I have some days.
On this particular night, I'm smiling while a few girls play jump-rope and pretending not to notice the new guy as he ambles up the sidewalk.
The sun just went down but the heat is still hazy and cloying. Little droplets of sweat decorate my forehead, and just as I wipe them away, my eyes catch his. He's walking up the sidewalk, weaving through blankets of fireflies.
The first time he smiles at me, it's electric. Every vein sizzles with hot blood, every cell vibrates, and every breath shimmies out unsteadily. It's not even that he's good-looking, because I'm not so sure he is, but there's something about him.
One of the kids runs over with a ball in his hands. "Come play with us."
The man laughs. "It's a little hot for that, don't you think?"
But he takes the ball and tosses it around. I watch them play for a while, feeling strangely panicked. He hasn't really looked at me, and he certainly hasn't spoken to me, but I sense something revolutionary is about to happen. I don't really think I can deal with that. I'm not ready, and I'm not so sure I'll ever be.
He throws the ball to another child after a while and stands back, letting the kids enjoy their game. The girls giggle when the boys' game gets too close.
My whole body thrums with energy when he lowers himself down on the stoop next to me.
"They're great kids," he says.
"Yeah. Yeah, they are."
"I see you out here with them a lot. That's really nice of you."
"I don't mind."
We're quiet for a few minutes. It makes me a little depressed that I can't think of anything to say to him.
"You're a hairdresser, right?"
The question startles me and I look at him, face to face. He seems different close up. His nose has been broken countless times, I can tell, and his lips are almost too big for his face. His eyes are a disconcerting blue- not a crystal blue, but a dark, moody sapphire.
"There are a lot of very talkative ladies in this building. They say you're really good." His smile widens. "I could use a haircut."
"I work downtown." I take a deep breath and wonder if I should tell him the rest. A little bit of a breeze rustles through, catching his scent on a wave of air. I've never felt this way ... So off balance by someone's presence, and somehow addicted to the feeling. "Sometimes I do cuts in my apartment, though."
"Hmm. I might have to make an appointment, then."
-------
I don't see much of him the next few weeks. We smile when we pass one another in the hall, or on the street, and occasionally he says hello. I don't dare.
It's an Indian summer, but a crispness is invading the air, making me at once happy yet aching. I always feel a bit lost in the fall. September has set in, the leaves are beginning to fade, and the kids are back at school. He doesn't hang around so much anymore, busy with teaching. It dawned on me after we said our goodbyes that night I don't even know his name. I could ask around, but that feels too sad and clingy. It would undoubtedly get back to him, anyway.
Then, one rare Saturday when I don't have to go into work, I hear a light knock at the door.
He is on the other side, standing casually when I open it. A small smile curves his lips.
"Are you busy?"
My heart thuds. "Umm, not really."
"I was wondering if you could give me a haircut." He runs a hand through his hair, shuffling around the choppy layers, and gives me a big smile. "I'm becoming a bit too alternative for school."
I smile nervously and gesture him inside. He sits quietly while I gather everything I need, taking longer than usual because his presence knocks me off kilter.
"I don't want anything too drastic," he tells me. "Just something to make me look professional."
Normally I'd be amused at the hint of anxiety in his voice; he's concerned I might take too much off, I can tell. Being in the business this long has helped me decode "I want just a little off" as: "Please keep my hair completely the same."
He doesn't chatter while I mess around, and I'm grateful for that. Clients who talk my ear off make me go nuts sometimes. It's peaceful this way and I find myself relaxing. My shoulders drop, my stomach calms and the whole thing almost feels pleasant. I don't take too much off the length of his hair.
Then I'm finished. He runs his fingers through it. He takes a peek in the mirror I present him and grins at his reflection.
"Wow, I like it. It's still me." His eyes glide to my stare. "Thanks. You're really good at this."
I'm probably blushing but I don't care. "Thank you."
He puts some bills down on my table- more than I deserve- and stretches. His eyes assess me. The sensation of his cataloguing gaze both thrills and terrifies me.
"Wanna go for a walk with me?"
I blink at the question. I most certainly wasn't expecting that. Before I can think too hard about it, I hear myself consenting. "Sure."
"My name is Graham, by the way," he says once we're in the late Autumn sun. "I forgot to introduce myself. And you're Virginia, right?"
"Right." I'm surprised he knows my name. Maybe the fascination isn't one-sided. "People call me Ginny sometimes."
His smile is soft. "Good to know."
We drift down the sidewalk, crunching leaves below our feet. We don't need to talk and I like that. It's a little uncomfortable, but mostly it's exciting.
He tells me about school after a little bit. He loves being a teacher, but he doesn't even have to say the words. I can see how his eyes light up, how he uses his hands, how he laughs when he tells stories about his students. Then he says how hard it's been for him, moving out here to the city, away from everything he knew before.
"I like the city. But it's so lonely, sometimes, don't you think?" The way his eyes scan my face tells me he already knows my answer.
