Eight Box Set by J.M. Snyder

Author:J.M. Snyder [Snyder, J.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-06-29T00:00:00+00:00

Windows

There’s a U-Haul truck parked in front of the house next door when I step out on my porch to check the mail. I hear the back roll up, boyish laughter, a man’s voice saying something low and unintelligible, more laughter, another man giggling, “Rudy, stop it.”

Kids, I think as I pull the few bills and mail-order catalogues from my mailbox. They shouldn’t sell homes to the college students—they turn the places into party houses, people crawling all over the yard, cars up and down the block. That’s the last thing this neighborhood needs, you know? And why’d it have to be the house next to mine?

From inside the truck, I hear the scrape of heavy furniture, something dropped, a gasp and the same guy calling out, “Watch it! That’s authentic. Rudy, honey…no, wait—”

A loud crash and I stop, interested in spite of myself. The guy has one of those voices that you hear and just know he’s into boys, it’s painfully clear. A little queeny, with that slight lisp the comedians always make fun of in gay jokes. Leaning against the railing, I flip through my mail half-heartedly and wait to catch a glimpse of this kid and the Rudy he’s now bitching out for dropping the vase. He actually says vaaz, making me smile. Maybe a new neighbor won’t be so bad after all.

When he finally steps into view, I have to catch my breath. Damn. I know I’m staring, but just…damn. Short dark hair, real short, cut close to his head with bleached bangs combed down flat in a monk’s cut. No shirt to hide his thick, tanned arms or his broad chest, which is smooth and muscled. Swim trunks, tanned legs, strong thighs—I’d swear the May heat just went up another ten degrees. No shoes, that’s cute. I like the way his shorts hang a little low on his hips. They pull down farther when someone inside the truck throws a ring of keys at him and it falls through his hands so he bends over to pick it up. No tan lines, I’m impressed.

The boy screams summer. I stare at him and think of beaches and Frisbees and surfing, boardwalks, those red-and-white striped changing tents that are synonymous with the Beach Boys and the sixties. “You didn’t have to throw them, Rudy,” the guy says with a pout.

God! He even crosses his arms in front of his chest and glares at the truck like a little kid, pulling off the wounded diva stance perfectly. I want to call out to him myself, apologize for Rudy’s behavior, tell him to come on over here and I’ll kiss that pout away myself.

Careful, Thom, a voice inside my head whispers, sobering me up. The smile dissolves from my face and my hands tighten around the mail unconsciously. You don’t need to be getting involved with anyone right now, least of all the new guy next door. Remember John?

Ah yes, my lover of seven months—how could I forget him?

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