#40-Weatherman
“Darryl, put me down.” If we had to fight or flee, I didn’t want to hamper him.
“It’s okay. TV is on. And I recognize that suitcase…but he wasn’t supposed to get in until tomorrow night.”
I caught a glimpse of the sofa. A wild shock of hair flopped at one end and two enormous feet in cowboy boots hung off the other. The TV was tuned to the Weather Channel.
“Dude!”
Darryl’s brother Richard shoved his head over the end of the sofa and it hung upside down, inspecting us.
“The Dorkmeister. With carryout! Did you bring enough for everyone?”
“Nope, keeping this one all to myself.” Darryl kicked the door shut and headed towards the bedroom.
With an earsplitting whoop, Richard bounced up from the couch and vaulted over the coffee table, blocking access to the hall. He was a lean scarecrow of a man, half a foot shorter than Darryl, which merely made him normally tall. His narrow face was tanned like saddle leather, beaten by wind and sun, deeply creased by laugh lines.
“Come on, Dork. Let me see, let me see, let me see what you’ve caught!”
Truth be told, a burglar would have been less terrifying. “Darryl, put me down!”
Darryl tightened his grip. “Dude!” he warned, “It’s late and we’re tired. It’s not that I’m not glad to see you, but can’t this wait until morning?”
“No, no, I gave my speech one day early and grabbed an afternoon flight that connected in some place that looked like Moscow to rush to your side, little brother. Howdy, Miss Tiffany, I must say you don’t look like a devious harpy what has got her hooks in our Darryl.” Richard goggled at me, his eyebrows bouncing up and down.
I giggled. “No, sorry, you know how it is. Fresh out of hooks and the harpy costume always at the cleaners. You must be Richard, Darryl’s second brother. Sorry I can’t shake your hand. Darryl won’t put me down and I have to keep this arm around his neck.”
“Call me Dude. I see your difficulty. Once Dork gets something in his head, it’s impossible to change his mind.” Richard held up his cell phone and snapped our picture. He howled at the resulting screen. “The yeti and its prey!”
Darryl the yeti said, “There’re sheets on the fold out sofa already. I only used it once. Or there are clean sheets in the closet that will fit Trey’s bed.”
The grin left Richard’s face as if Darryl had slapped it off. “I need a beer,” he announced. He yanked one out of the refrigerator like a magic trick. Twisting the cap off, he held it up in ironic salute. “Want one?”
Darryl marched down the hall, kicked the door of the guest bedroom shut and sank down on the bed.
“I couldn’t put you down,” he confessed “On the limo ride, I unfastened all your clothes. I was afraid your pants would fall down if you stood up.”
I stood up. My pants slid down. I stepped out of them, shook them out and hung them up. Darryl had done a clean sweep: every button on my blouse and every hook and eye on my bra—fortunately, my long coat had covered this multitude of sins.
“It was so beautiful and romantic to be carried up the stairs,” I said.
“I was going to undress you. And kiss you all over. And touch you…all the parts of your skin…”
I looked at my boyfriend’s big hands. He’d undone all those tiny hook-and-eye fasteners on my bra without waking me up. My heart raced. He could be obsessive-compulsive about details. I just about spontaneously combusted on the spot.
