The ears of sunlight cascaded the clouds like monkeys in a jungle gym and scolded their fans.
Yet, the greens of untamed grass rose to high notes of color, chased the soil, and waved victory across our subtle lawn.
It was Anna's day to tame the shrubs.
"Aargh! Do you expect this bush to disappear by itself? C'mon, pleat those sleeves, and run to the yard. We don't have all day..."
She exited the apartment with a hammer and well-stacked screws.
Her tousled hair whipped chaos below her shoulders.
Taken aback, my mouth split open.
I gasped. "What the hell?"
What sort of person trimmed the grass with a hammer?
She must have drunk.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and massaged my forehead.
"What happened to the lawnmower and the rake?"
Her cheeks surged up like red-faced cones, and wrinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes.
"Forget about those rascals." She pressed her lips and tossed her hair to her back. "They are taking a smoke in the granny flat."
"Eh?"
My lips curled upward, and I kneaded a brow.
She cracked jokes in every single discussion, yet they stunned me.
I cradled a book close to my bosom, hopped on the rocky pavement, and tipped my head up. "So what are you up to?"
Her gaze shifted from the lawn to the wolf blankets knotted in the sky.
She handled a toolbox, bit her stuck-up lips, and stepped to the fore.
"You won't make a pass at this right? Unless..., let me guess." My nose flared up, sniffed dense clouds, and caught a hint at the click of my fingers. "Do you want to build a kennel?"
Dang, it!
Why did mongrels smile so fine and woof so gently?
If not for their chef-d'oeuvre cuteness, mineral white teeth, and Italian physique; Anna wouldn't have stopped by that outlandish animal shelter down the street and adopted a dog.
I frowned. "Murphy drools, plus he's not good-looking."
"And so what?" She shoved her skin and bones middle finger at me and rushed forth to build a house for her pet. "An extra pair of hands will be great. See you around, girl... don't be late."
I rubbed my puffed-up eyes and nodded. "Yes, when pigs fly."
She swayed her hips and winked a finger. "Sweetie, try me."
"What's talking?"
I heaved a sigh, and stoke out my tongue.
Her cold shoulder was a tsunami that saluted my protest.
I gazed into the distance with a faraway expression and chewed my nails. "Whatever floats your boat."
Newspapers flapped in the wind and made a pass at the golden ball up the sky.
One could pin-point their kiss of affection, and genuine apprehension, unlike humans whose life was a stage play.
I gaped at my feet and moistened my lips.
How would trust exist in the arena of hypocrites?
Behind curtains, emotions were rehashed before each play.
Everyone faked it.
Man showcased his best foot to hide disdain from others.
In truth, to survive with man, critiqued scripts were followed to the letter.
Why so?
It's simple, scripts branded man's DNA.
Men who failed to mask their sentiments crashed at the bottom of existence and flamed in hurt.
Anarchy imprisoned man.
Big or small, fat or thin, size didn't matter because each was winnowed.
It occurred to me that life was survival of the fittest, a roller-coaster of tot-up horror and inescapable.
I threw my head back and battled for garden air.
The roadway ahead of me was a flawed ribbon that stretched to the highlights of our porch.
Its beauty stood with widespread legs and crossed arms.
Its authoritative voice was wine to the ears.
On the dark-green carpet, a wooden patio chair sprawled.
Heart-shaped pillows played hide and seek with the strawberry plant that wove its fingers around the chair's suntanned legs.
If a tourist showed up on our porch, his camera would walk the charisma of this Greek patio chair down the aisle to memory lane.
Seduced, and lured over, I slumped dead into its comfort.
My storybook skipped and slipped to my thighs.
I leaned forward and placed my heavy head in my hands.
What was next to do?
How was I supposed to follow my heart when it beats in no direction?
Perhaps Elisabeth was right-or-maybe she was wrong, either case none was certain, such was life.
What was Dwain's side of the story?
I didn't question how he lived his life before Elisabeth, but I questioned why he enslaved her.
Did the lady in the picture leave him because of those weird sexual practices?
In New York City, Mr. Donovan had once said that most women left Dwain for the same reason.
Was BDSM the mysterious reason?
How he executed this practice was wrong, it wasn't safe, sane, and consensual.
Elisabeth had failed to trust him, and so did he.
I was concerned about why he carried out such sexual practices.
Did he engage in BDSM because of the darkness surrounding his past?
I was startled by the happy hums of our neighbor's shear, and flipped through the last pages of Pride and Prejudice, anxious to binge-read till its last line.
"... and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them."
The end reflected Elizabeth and Darcy's relationship, as they understood, and respected each other enough to live together forever.
Lizzy realized how much she misjudged Darcy, and how her conduct towards him fell short of what it ought to have been.
She'd accepted at face value the rather aloof, brooding figure, and assumed there was nothing more to Darcy than met the eye.
However, the fateful letter about Mr. Wickham's true nature disabused Lizzy of her prejudice.
Mr. Darcy, the character I could beat anytime, anywhere, for a decent quarter of the book turned out to be my new possessive obsession.
This crucial change in my heart wasn't rooted in the fact that he was rich, British, or kind of mean, but because he wasn't perfect.
He recognized his flaws and worked on his imperfections in the name of self-improvement for the sake of love.
I fetched my pencil and scribbled a footnote.
"It's not the handsome exterior, nor the money, or even the way he swoops in to save the day and rescue Elisabeth's stupid little sister and their family from shame. No, the reason I adore Mr. Darcy has to do with his powers of receptive language. When Elisabeth tells him that she's full of crap, he listens to her. If Dwain listens, he will be one of the best men ever lived, the man of my dreams."
I plopped the pencil and grinned at older notes.
"Hey, stop."
Her yell was an avalanche.
Anna snatched my novel and manhandled it in her stained gloves.
She eyed me like a watchtower while a river of sweat dribbled past her lips, and soaked her soiled t-shirt. "Why don't you help me build Murphy's kennel?"
I flexed my arms above my head. "You didn't ask nicely. So..."
"It seems like you would not cooperate. Moreover Murphy..."
"Fine," I pursed my lips and swallowed the ache in my throat.
"Let's get an extra pair of hands."
I unlocked my cell phone and texted Orlando.
His reply chirped.
"He's in our neighborhood, and should soon be here."
Lost for words, she rubbed her wet neck. "And? Who is this he?"
Her patience wrestled with my vulgarity but silence prevailed
She braced her arms and sat down.
"What is on your mind?"
I hunched my shoulders. "There's nothing special."
"Alright, then, I hope so though it seems fishy."
She drummed her fingers on her thighs.
In the span of tooth-aching and hair-twirling minutes, the wheels of a black SUV screeched and buckled up in front of us.
The car reversed and halted.
Its shadow was a furnace in the sun, while the headlights were pigs at dinner.
Orlando turned a key in the ignition.
His engine fired a bullet and shut down.
Anna cast a sideways glance at me, and her fist twitched.
Her eyes were ice, and her lips a volcano, ready to explode.
Holy pasta, we were awkward.
"He's here to help, hold your horses."
My brows narrowed and curled inward; as though her gaze burnt my skin.
She slurred swear words and smacked my head.
I gritted my jaw and dismissed her hand. "Ouch! It hurts."
"It serves you right." She wrinkled her nose and jostled my book.
Orlando propped against his car crossed his legs and picked up his phone.
He wore an olive shirt jacket atop a black crew-neck t-shirt, paired with black ripped skinny-fit jeans and well-worn white sneakers.
Though his outfit was plain Mexican, a trend that natives adopted, he exuded power and strength from his gray eyes.
Alpha-masculinity sipped through his chiseled chin, broad shoulders, and strong athletic legs which curved outward.
Orlando's presence commanded attention and reverence
"Fuck it."
Anna shredded her gloves.
Her wafer-thin body was shy and giggly under those grungy clothes of hers.
She batted her eyebrows and toyed with her red fingernails.
Her glossy cheeks brightened. "He is close-up, hot, and firkin juicy."
Famine trembled in her speech.
I chuckled and stroked her arm.
She withheld a shallow moan.
Her skin was hypersensitive.
Wow, the mere sight of Orlando made her thirsty?
Jeez!
I thumped my foot. "He's way out of your league."
"Off cause," Anna angled her head.
A pair of arched eyebrows looked down on swept eyelashes, and the soft coils of her tangled hair fell across her face to shade her eye.
She hissed. "My league is fairway higher than his standers, capuche?"
Holy mackerel, she was kinship.
My mouth widened and my nose-dived.
Anna's jest had just turned the world aflame with silver. "You ate that witticism and left no crumbs."
I pegged my lips and crushed a rough chortle.
"I have a Spanish accent in sarcasm."
She broke into a laugh and wiped a hand in the air. "Life tutors me."
It screamed, 'Joie de vivre,' and her oyster-white teeth slaughtered half of my life.
I brushed off fake tears. "I envy your grades. "
"Por favor, apresúrese." Orlando hung up the phone. "Hola señoritas, did you wait on me for long? I wasn't courteous. Kindly, accept my apologies."
He spun his car keys about his ring finger and strapped the bundle to his belt. "Let me see your plan for the dog house."
He checked his watch and fisted the high fades of his spiky hair.
"What's with the rush?" I gripped the patio chair and swung my legs.
His eyes buried mine and requested to speak but I told him off. "You look exquisite today. It's such a rare sight."
He choked at my compliment and flashed his aligned teeth.
"Undeniably, true." His voice was a husk, and gentle.
He untangled his feet from a knot and kick-started his strides to catch up with us. "After years of hiding in the closet, why shouldn't I look good?"
Anna's throat rattled butted in. "Is someone full of himself?"
She averted her gaze from Orlando, sent me a troubling glare, and darted her focus to the floor.
"Closet my ass! You did not have to show up here." She grumbled and cracked her knuckles.
"I won't have dared to come if given a choice." His contempt oozed.
Orlando's telling-off spiked to an octave as the color drained from his light brown face.
His eyes darkened, brows knotted and knocked together. "What will you do about it, punch me?"
Santa-piggy, lazy maiden of saints, Mr. XY was pissed.
"XY, please, don't get mad at her."
Shit had hit the fans.
I snitched an excuse. "It's that time of the month." I caged my lips and stifled a laugh that resonated as though it was a horror plot twist. "And she's been whining since morning."
He scoffed. "If you say so then..."
"Who is whining?" Anna poked a finger up and nudged her bosom. "Me? No way. You two should dive deeper into your stupidity. If you do not mind, pardon my sanity. My cookies are in the oven."
She booted up with the strength of a truck, slacked her pants, and dashed for the apartment.
Orlando's mien was that of nostalgia and bemusement. "Is she on her period?" He sucked in empathy, turned his head, and slunk his hands to rest deep down his pockets. "She is bizarre."
Screw it!
I shook my head with gratitude and sighed. "You are slow to understand. With my ranting, you couldn't figure it out? "
I released my breath, clapped his shoulder in regret, and drew his arm towards the sketch of the dog house.
"What a waste."
"Amiga, you are foul-mouthed." He towed behind me like a lost puppy from Alaska. "Someday, I shall get back at you."
"Huh, this old man has started to nag again? Lord, please have mercy on my poor nerves."
We both cracked up at my joke.
One hand stood on his waist while the other skimmed through the paperwork.
Sheet after sheet, he analyzed and creased his brows at the said dimensions.
"Oh! Oh! I get it, 2" x 2"." He pointed at a laid-back lumbar. "Grab that guy, and make yourself useful."
Over chants and small talks, we assembled the cut base pieces and screwed them to make a frame for the basement.
It was an adequate square.
"Mr. XY, why don't you have a girlfriend?"
I jerked plywood, labeled it, and made a chef's pass at him.
"I have friends."
He smirked, nudged it on the base frame, and nailed the plywood in place.
For the weight test, he skipped and bumped a foot in the basement.
It was firm.
He continued. "And what about Elisabeth? Have you taken a stance?"
I scratched my head. "Can we not just bring up Elisabeth?"
"Believe me," he shot a double-take in the void, hopped from the basement, and marched to the table which harbored frames for the sidewalls. "I don't want that as much as you do."
I gulped. "Good." He swung the frames to his shoulder and lowered them atop the basement "I mean, can we not talk about it? Last night, our discussion made me uncomfortable."
"Why do you want to overthink things?"
He positioned the four frames for the sidewalls and drilled them together with deck screws.
The narrowed structure of what the main dog house would look like came to life. "If you like, talk... don't talk, the fact is you are too concerned with what was... and what will be."
"Why shouldn't I worry?"
Puzzled, I kneeled at the foot of the basement and supported the frames.
Orlando fenced the sidewalls with plywood.
I licked my lip. "There is a serial killer in a neighborhood. Who won't freak out if they got to live next door to this guy? Even though he's promised never to kill, what becomes of the neighbors when this habit resurfaces?"
"Look," he clutched a meter-saw and cut angles for the roof. "There's this saying, yesterday is history... tomorrow is a mystery but today is a gift... that is why it is called the present... the opportunity to start over. Someone's past is not a reference for the future. History is rewritten every day. All it takes is willpower. Are you ready?"
"Even if the neighbors volunteer to help him write his present, such that it won't mirror his past, is the serial killer indeed ready for a change?" I jerked a finger. "Someone's past is a crude reference to his future. I dare say it can be a negative or positive influence. So the past is a reference point."
Sweat pricked his forehead, and he dusted his hands. "Ask him."
His speech was a Band-Aid to my wounds.
Did Dwain want to change?
Had he chosen to forgo his past bondage, and rewrite his history?
He wasn't a bad boy during my stay at his mansion.
His change wasn't a constant but a variable.
It had come unnoticed, equipped, and ambushed the world of rebels.
It held the crayon which rewrote history.
Mr. Horton had used it.
Why couldn't I see?
Oh!
How would I have seen it when my judgment was biased?
"Oh! Fuck! Don't look down... Keep your eyes on me."
He showed compassion for my hurt.
"Are you scared?"
He stressed my stress.
"Mrs. Horton's... they are brave like their men."
He cheered me up at my worst.
"Place your hands on my shoulders... and fall not."
He sat me on his throne like a queen.
"I know I messed up. Trust me, I'm working on it."
He gave me a lifetime assurance.
"... if everything is a dream, let's make this one real."
He stole my first kiss.
"... but you aren't another girl. You are my girl."
Dang, it!
Mr. Horton had stolen my heart.
The raspy texture of his voice resounded in every nerve across my body.
He had begged for a new start, far away from the strings of his mistakes.
Was it sincere?
Ask him!
"Sometimes you are sweet, other times you are selfish and prideful... you hate me but I still love you. I don't want to let go... have you bewitched me... the lady I love?"
He had introduced me to a new world.
Why then did doubts bother my decisions?
Mr. Horton was my husband, my world.
"I can fix myself but only if you answer... do you still love me?"
What if Elisabeth wasn't over him just yet?
I had to find out.
"What is your decision?" Orlando tugged hard on my arm, and a groan escaped my lips. "Is this neighbor moving in tonight?"
Head in my hands, I breathe, "We shall see," and ogled at an endless sky.
He cleared his throat and went back to work.
The kennel took shape as each piece fitted like a glove.
It was a little house, with a hinged window, a wide door, and a stage for midnight plays.
Orlando roofed the dog house and built the ramp.
The ramp was attached to a sidewall.
It permitted the dog to climb the roof and bask in the sun.
For its finale, we stained the dog house with single streaks of white and blue paint.
"We did it."
"Oh! Yes, we did it."
Out of breath, Orlando tore off his jacket and ditched it. "I'm famished."
His sweaty hands maneuvered his t-shirt, rolled it out of his sticky abdomen, and projected it.
The T-shirt flew to our neighbor's yard.
"I have another shirt in the car."
Anna wheezed. "What the actual fuck? Fuck!"
The tray of cookies and tea was out-balanced in her hands, but Orlando intervened and saved the day.
Go, go, Superman!
He sized her up in his arms, like an egg, and breathed on her burnt fingers.
"Let go, silly."
She fought out of his grip and secured the tray.
I feasted on a cookie. "Sorry, guys, I have ongoing work inside."