Making the Fur Fly

Four | Leroy

The guy passed me as he exited the store and I dragged myself out of my chair, making sure my bag covered everything. I wish I knew who he was or that I had at least seen him around. I probably would've had a reason to talk to him. I had none. Racking my brain for an opening line was hopeless, too. I couldn't use pickup lines, even if I could pull them off. I didn't want to make it seem like I was interested in him like that. God knows if he is. That would be the cream of the crop. Two straight guys destined to be together. What a fairytale.

I followed him outside, though I lagged behind, as if distance was enough to make our bond disappear. When I realized he was about to get in his car, I cursed and sped over.

"Excuse me?" I called out.

He paused with his hand on the door handle and looked at me over the roof. "Yeah? What's up?"

"Uh, well, I . . ." Shit, say something. "I have a weird . . . request."

"Okay."

"I kind of need to get to know you."

Oh my God, seriously?

I mentally kicked myself. Why couldn't I just say I would like to get to know him? I didn't have to make it that weird. I opened my mouth to clarify, but he was already shrugging.

"Sure," he said. "You want my number?"

"I—yes, but . . ."

"What?"

I shook my head. "Never mind. I was just surprised you accepted so easily when you don't know me. I'll give you mine. I forgot to bring my phone."

He shrugged again while he took out his phone. "I do know you."

"You do?"

"Yeah, I've seen you enough to know you live around here. What part of town do you live in, actually?"

"Um . . . at the edge. Near the woods."

"Fancy."

"It's not that fancy. My house . . . well, let's just say it's seen better days."

"Oh, is it that crackhouse? The one on the corner?"

"What? Crackhouse? Is that what people call it?"

"My friend Dennis calls it that. He stopped by recently. Wanted to ring the doorbell to see if y'all had drugs, but there wasn't a doorbell, so he knocked."

I gaped. What? "Right, well, you can tell your friend I don't sell drugs. Neither does my brother."

"That's what they all say."

"No, I—"

He laughed. "I'm just messing with you, man. Dennis has to get clean anyways. But what's your digits?"

"Right." The urge to ask why his friend was walking up to strange houses to ask for drugs was strong, but I resisted. For all I knew, he was making it all up. I gave him my number, which incited the obligatory remark about the abundance of sixes.

He sent me a text so I'd have his number, then announced he had to leave. Getting the ice cream tub at the bottom of his grocery bag home was his top priority. Since my body hadn't given up hope for a more intimate introduction yet, I didn't argue. I would also rather go home and text him.

As he opened the car door, he winked. "I'm Shaun, by the way."

I nodded. "Leroy."

He waved and got in. The tires of his Honda squealed, pushing up dust clouds from the loose gravel below. I stood in the parking lot staring after him, then repeated, "Shit."