Chipped Nails

Her hands were cold. Not like an ice cube. Those are frozen. But, cold, as if she hadn't worn gloves and then proceeded to wipe snow off the windshield of her car. I had finally gotten the nerve to strike up a conversation a few days ago, and now she was standing in my kitchen. People say that, "Strike up," right? Her hair sort of in front of her face, not touching her cheeks necessarily, but sort of lingering midair as if hoping to brush past for one second.

"Do you want something to drink? Like a glass of water."

I opened the fridge, a chill meeting the cold air of my kitchen. Started rumbling through, the bright light bulb reflecting off my glasses. I'm sure I was looking just great.

"Uh, iced tea? Da. Da. Da. You don't want that, maybe some chocolate milk?"

She laughed. I smiled out from the corner of my mouth. The left side.

"Chocolate milk it is."

Some color returned to her face. Warmer now.

"I'm not going to turn down chocolate milk."

It was definitive, and I liked that. I poured her a glass, well, three quarters of a pint. The cup had an etching of Snoopy painted on it. It went with a set I had gotten for Christmas the year before. A sort of White Elephant gift, but I thought it was cool. A set of four Peanuts themed cups. I handed her the glass, she took it. Had some chipped nail polish on. Like she had painted it the day before, but then washed a bunch of dishes. My mom always wore rubber gloves to avoid a chipped nail. I can hear her.

"I keep it classy, John." To my father. She'd say it again and again. My dad would look up from the table, amused at his wife. I always appreciated how he looked at her. Like she was the only thing saving him from whatever it was that was on the hunt for him. You know?

"The classiest I've ever known." She'd wink at him. Do this weird tip of her hip as if to say, "Thanks," and keep doing dishes.

It was sort of sad when we moved and got a dishwasher.

Anne was standing in front of my sink now. I didn't have a dishwasher. No one in college did. Or likely does now either. She had finished her last gulp. I could hear it. Not gurgling or anything, but you know that sound, when you can hear the swallow and the settling of liquid?

I had put away all the other options. The water. The tea. I leaned against the edge of my counter. It looked nicer than it really was. A sort of fake marble top, but really I think just a Home Depot bought cork with a marble looking design. I tucked my hands in each pocket. She came closer. Not too close to send a message, but close enough to send a vibe.

"Thanks for that." We sort of stood there. A weird pause. What to do. I waited too long. When had she put her gloves on? I didn't know she had gloves. Where were they before? Too long.

"Well, I guess I'm gonna go." She batted her eyelashes. It sounded sweet, like she didn't want to infringe on my "me-time." I liked that she wasn't wearing mascara. I didn't want "me-time." What was happening?

"Oh." That was it. That's what I had.

"Okay. Well, it was fun to, I don't know, see where you live." She leaned in for an awkward hug.

Fuck.

"Yeah. You too." That made no sense.

I was still wearing my shoes. In my own house. Thoughts: Why am I wearing these stupid shoes? These dumb grey Saucony's. That's all I could think. If I had just taken my shoes off it would have been a natural progression to the living room, to the couch, to hanging out on my couch. To take your coat off. To watching a movie. To accidentally falling asleep. To waking up in three hours. To her saying, "It's so late." To me saying, "Yeah, it's ok." To fake falling asleep so that she felt comfortable falling asleep again also by accident, though we both know it wasn't a real accident. And we would be on the couch. And we'd wake up. And it'd be morning. And I wouldn't be alone.

It would be morning already, before we knew it, and we'd be rinsing out that Peanut pint glass without rubber gloves on. We'd smile as I washed and she dried. Fuck.

"Thanks, I'll see ya later." A blonde wisp of hair hit her cheek as she turned back to wave. I waved back. Paralyzed, sitting in my own Fuck, What Happened Here?-ness.

The sound of my door closing. Click of the main lock as I turned it left. Brought up the chain to bolt the door. Slid from right to left. It hung there loosely. She was out in the cold, gloves on, jacket zipped.

And we were alone again.