First Contact

You come home to find the dog has eaten the garbage. Again. He vomited it on the carpet and you can't find the cleaner. Or stand the smell. Or do this today.

So you leash that overgrown puppy and walk him six doors down to where Anthony is jumping through the sprinkler. Beautiful Anthony. You watch him, dreamy-eyed, your heart thumping each time your teen crush lands, his wet shirt sticking to the skin you'd like to feel the warmth of, if only you could come up with a reason to hug him. Or better, have him hug you.

Anthony starts to smile at you. You start to smile back. But Anthony frowns hard and you turn to see your dog vomiting an incredible flow of waste into his mother's tulips. You start to apologize, but the stink hits and you gag, a small dribble of lumpy liquid splashing over your chin and down the blueberry sundress that has never, until now, failed to make you feel beautiful.

Oh God, you think. Anthony can't see you this way. So you run, and that would have been fine except the dog doesn't follow. He is a big dog. A solid dog. And when he doesn't move, you don't move. The leash tugs back. You lose your balance, landing on the cracked concrete face first.

"Are you okay?" Anthony is shouting. Then, "Mama! Mama!" over and over in a wail that lets you know it is more than the pavement that is cracked.

You decide not to get up. You imagine a beach and a hot pink bikini and being 14 on any other block but this one, where Anthony lives.

Water drips off of him onto you. You open your eyes. It takes time for them to focus, but when they do, you realize he is cradling your head in his lap. "Don't you worry," he is saying. His voice is gentle and he is stroking your hair. His skin, you can feel it warming to your face. His shirt is off. He's holding you skin to skin.

You don't worry. Because there is no better result of this tragedy than the way he is tenderly cleaning your face, his smooth voice saying softly, "It's okay. I've got you."

image from pixabay.com