Currently on Ohio leave and staying at the house of my good friends the Branums, I found myself home alone in the afternoon, as there is gainful employment and helping out at schools to keep other adults busy while I try to watch the shows I missed last night online despite an unpredictable internet connection.
After a crack at this, getting nowhere due to the apparently constant need for buffering, I decided to work on my novel. Yeah, that’s right: novel. All words. Okay, sure, it’s a basic story I’ve been working on for various mediums since… crap… 1997??? But, still, when at a loss for something to write, I figure basically adapting my own work, written by a younger and more productive me, is better than doing ill-advised Facebook searches or debating whether or not to download some self-help e-book that costs $39.99 and probably wouldn’t help me anyway.
I opened my novel’s Word doc for the first time in a couple months (yeah, not that productive) and sat down at the Branums’ dining room table to get started. Then I realized I was thirsty and stood to get some water. On my way back from that short ten step trek, I saw out the window that would be behind me once I sat down to write (kinda) at my laptop a bronzed, white haired, shirtless older gentleman. Did I mention the beard and the cigarette clenched in his teeth? No? Well, now I have.
He was either sweaty or oiled, and, dammit, though likely over twice my age, in better shape than me. But as I approached my chair, getting closer to the window, I noticed his attire from the waist down.
Denim cut offs. Jean shorts. And short ones at that. Yeah, there might’ve been some inner pocket peaking out at the bottom. I’m not sure, because as soon as I saw this almost orange old fella in Daisy Dukes, so close to the window doing I’m not sure what, I had to sit down and turn my back to him lest I stared.
Now, it was a nice day out, but I was comfortable in uncut jeans and a polo shirt. This fella, though, dammit, he was hot apparently. Walking around way too close to other people’s windows, smoking like only old men smoke, and, dammit, a shirt’d just add to that heat! You know what else is? The legs to these damn jeans. Why not cut ’em off? Okay! And let’s see how much leg can be kept bare to appreciate the breeze generated by the determined walk. Also want to get that dark tan as high up the thigh as possible, right?
I couldn’t help but turn around to look at him again, hoping he didn’t notice me through the window, imagining perhaps that I was safe inside the house, unable to be seen by the outside world. He picked up a hose and started watering some sort of vegetable garden right outside the window. Smoking billowing from his quickly shrinking cigarette. Free hand perched on his slightly protruding hip. Nearly completely bare legs spread.
Standing with purpose. With some sort of fire in his belly.
In tiny, tiny cut off jean shorts.
Fuck it, he looked good. With the right attitude and sense of purpose, anyone could look good. And this old fella was what he was and didn’t give a damn if anyone had a problem with these shorts that’d be oddly short even on a hot young lady.
I turned around and started writing this instead of working on the novel. (I’ll get back to it after I post this. And nap… maybe.)