Brandon trudged to the kitchen, coffee pot in his hand. He was not a morning person, but longer video calls with clients had been forcing him to show up the gallery earlier just to get his presentations organized for the day. In his bleariness, he did not take notice of the box truck emblazoned with “Joyland Masonry” pulling into the parking lot that was overlooked by his east bank of windows.

Brandon’s home occupied most of the entire floor of an old tobacco warehouse. It was entirely unlike any home he had ever designed and decorated before, being that it was mostly one huge open space. The challenge of creating multiple areas over the vast diagonally laid yellow pine floors and still be able to maintain a cohesive feel was well beyond those faced in the typical, chopped-up apartment setups, and Brandon had been in need of a pandemic project as much as the next person. The temporary housing collapse that ensued had gotten his foot in the door on this place, and his impeccably kept space kept him in good graces with the landlord.

Living in a 140-year-old building meant living with quirks and constant repairs. Lately, the tenants had been plagued by water intrusion, the soft limestone mortar having washed out in years of wind-driven rain. Everywhere around the building, the sand collected in puddles, which dried leaving public litter boxes for the ample neighborhood cats to freely use. Brandon had only vaguely filed away his landlord’s notice of the imminent repointing work, and was so unaware of the ladders going up against the bulding as he stared at the amber stream issuing from the coffee maker.

It wasn’t until he had drained the last drop of the caffeinated lifeblood into his travel mug that he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and was dumbstruck to turn and see someone squatting down just beyond his kitchen window in the dusty pink morning light. The kitchen window, like all the windows in Brandon’s loft, was huge, starting at waist height and stretching 8 feet to the loft ceiling. Brandon never bothered to pull the shade on it, that particular window being both nestled into the corner of the L-shaped building and looking out over the expansive rubber roof that topped a lower level extension. No one could ever see into the narrow galley-style kitchen. That is, unless they were on the roof immediately outside.

Brandon paused, travel mug in hand, as he turned his head for a better look. The man was squatting before the window in the adjacent wall, his body in profile from Brandon’s vantage point. He wore a Joyland-embroidered sweatshirt, hood pulled up over a baseball cap against the brisk fall morning. Brandon could make out a sculpted beard as it tufted out past the folds of the hood. The mason’s requisite Carhartt pants were gray and fell about the tops of two scuffed leather crepe-soled boots, Red Wings from the look of the signature zigzag pattern that Brandon could see on the bottoms of the upturned heels. The boots were open at the top, the knotted lace ends hanging from the top eyelets.

Brandon watched in satisfaction at the worker tapped a slurried grout concoction from the board balanced in his left hand into a gap in the bricks with a long, skinny trowel in his right. He smoothed the joint, running the trowel back and forth, the cream-colored sole of the boot nearest Brandon gently waving in the morning light as he did so.

He could have watched all day, but work was beckoning. Brandon raced around the loft gathering his keys, laptop, and jacket before going through the routine of adjusting window shades and turning out lights he always did just before walking out the door. When he ducked into the kitchen and flicked out the light, the man was now perched directly in front of the kitchen window on short ladder, working on an area above the window. The extinguishing kitchen light caught his attention, and he glanced down through the glass.

He was sexy. His dark brown eyes were framed by a pair of thick, academic-looking glasses. His beard—which Brandon didn’t often go for—was a work of art, tapering into neat straps at the sides of his angular face. The man paused in his work, and nodded at Brandon.

“Good morning,” he called through the window. He raised the mortarboard in a greeting. A small glob of the limestone mixture hung from the edge, also waving.

“Hey,” Brandon called back. The Joyland man returned his gaze to the work above him, shifting forward on the ladder. Brandon could see the mason’s left pant leg was hung on the side of his open boot, a dark gap beckoning for him to stare. “Work,” he murmured to the Red Wing boot. “I’m going to be late for work.” The Joyland man brought his skinny trowel and mortarboard together, scooped up more of the grainy paste, then reached up to tap more into the unseen area of repair. As he did, he lowered the mortarboard back to the side. The stray glob of grout dropped from the board. Some of it struck a fold of the Carhartt, a dark gray oval pasted to the heavy twill. But the better part of the glob landed on the very edge of the Red Wing’s collar rim.

Brandon’s eyes bulged at his fortune to witness this. He took another step into the kitchen, suddenly remembering that he desperately had to water the plant on the sill with the empty watering can that sat by the sink. He grabbed the prop and took his place in front of the window. The Joyland man continued his work, oblivious to his audience and indeed his own performance that had Brandon’s rapt attention. Tap, tap, tap, smooth, smooth, smooth. Brandon all put pushed his face against the glass, tracking the precariously balanced blob of mortar as the Red Wing rocked slightly on the ladder rung with the mason’s movements. Brandon continued to suspend the watering can above the plant for another minute for the benefit of the Joyland man, who wasn’t even looking at him anymore.

Just then, Brandon heard the reverberation of a far off voice through the glass. It belonged to another worker, just topping the ladder and stepping onto the rubber roof at the far end of the extension. The Joyland man swiveled around to look at him on his ladder, the collar of the left Red Wing pivoting toward Brandon’s face. The gap between the spattered Carhartt’s and the soft worn Red Wing had parted enough for him to see a dark navy sock. And at that moment, the little glob of mortar tipped out of view and into the mason’s boot, a small smear left on the rim.

It was then that the Joyland man dismounted the ladder, the pant leg falling back over the Red Wing as he walked across the roof toward the other man, the pale crepe soles of his boots leaving zigzag prints on the rubber in morning condensation. The performance was over, but that was okay. Later that day, the Joyland man would find a crumbly, smeared surprise on his navy sock when he removed his boot, and Brandon had the luck of possessing the knowledge first. He texted Lydia at work that he was running a few minutes late, then pushed into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.