Brandon crossed the parking lot in front of the grocery store and suffered the furnace-like blast of the August sun rising off the pavement.   He could feel the shimmering heat as it seared through the flimsy soles of his chucks.  It rippled off the hood of the RAV4 as he cracked all the windows and blasted the AC, piteously underpowered on a day like this. 

He leaned back in the seat and mopped at the back of his neck, closing his eyes and enjoying the movement of the warm air across his face.  The limp handles of the grocery bags rattled in the passenger seat before the dash vents. Was this what South Carolina was always like?  The same oppressive heat, but with charming Spanish moss and sweet tea and gracious porches?  Was Anthony sitting in a rocker on such a porch now, smiling over at his incredibly pregnant wife?

Brandon groaned slightly and ran his fingers through his hair as if to rake the very thought from his scalp. He sat up and pulled the lap belt on, swearing as the metal buckle caught against his skin like a glowing ember. He peered out the bug encrusted windshield.  He was at the edge of the parking lot. A few crispy boxwoods stood between the front bumper of the SUV and a small weedy meadow beyond that sloped down to a line of trees, their unmoving leaves a nondescript color against the pale, hazy sky.  He always parked here. He leaned forward, his chin resting on the hot steering wheel, and he scanned the line where the sun’s relentless assault on the ground was broken by the branches overhead, and the baked grass gave way to matted leaves. He looked for the place where Anthony had stood that day, his legs slowly being overtaken by the sliding ooze.  

That hadn’t been the first time Brandon had retreated from a video session…nor the last. But that had been a moment he had returned to again and again, first out of shame and later on like on-demand mental porn. God, what had even happened to those olive Muck Boots?  Brandon shifted in his seat, trying to coax the wood to soften a bit before putting the car in reverse and backing away from the scene. 

He might have passed through the center of town on his way back to work without taking any of it in. Between the memories that swam in his head, plucking at him from within, and the steady white noise of the AC, which was at full blast to keep the August hellfire at bay, it was easy to drift along on autopilot. But as it happened, the fire department was flushing hydrants on Main St. If the sight of yellow water arcing onto the pavement had not pulled him from his trance, the man leaning against the wrench on the hydrant would. 

He wore the standard firefighter navy t-shirt and pants, but he had thrust his legs into a tall pair of waterproof Servus boots—the kind with the thick yellow stripe that wrapped over the tops of the feet.  The man’s arched boot straps seemed to take turns batting at the sides of his knee like a cat with a ball of yarn as he put his weight against the wrench and pivoted back and forth on his legs.  When he stepped into the gutter, the sediment-tinged water gushed over the top of his shining boot.  And had this stirring scene not transpired, Brandon may not have slowed down enough to notice the “For Lease” sign on the building behind him. 

“Did you know the Prescott Building is up for lease?” he asked as he sailed past Lydia’s desk when he got to the gallery.  She glanced up from a sea of white paint chips. 

“Prescott Building?” She frowned, the name not registering. 

Brandon piled the limp grocery bags on his desk. “The Art Deco one on Main Street.”

“Oh.” Any interest that might have been in voice suddenly flattened out. She returned to her squares in various shades of nothing. “No. I didn’t know.”

Brandon dramatically approached her desk. “Well, this is it. This is the sign I needed!” he revealed with his fingers splayed wide in the air. 

“What sign is that, Boo?” She didn’t even have the decency to pay him a glance. 

“That you were right.”  That had her attention. The furrowed her brow at him. “I should start my own business. And now I know where!”  Lydia’s questioning expression remained unchanged. “The Prescott Building!” he added with a small measure of exasperation. 

Lydia removed the pen she had tucked behind her air and set it down. She put her two hands before her on the desk, as though preparing herself for a difficult exchange. Brandon braced himself, cocking his head. But all that came out was, “do you have my salad or not?”

Brandon could feel a tired expression wash over him—the same one he reserved for when the woman ahead of him in the checkout line fumbled with a coupon organizer. “That’s your response to this huge news?”

“Huge news?” Her tone remained stolid. “Huge news is that you’re giving up cheese or voting with the Green Party.” She held two nearly identical squares up.  “This isn’t huge news. Which do we like for the Koser cabinets?”

“This is huge,” Brandon insisted, leaning on her desk. “I think I’m going to do it. Why not now? I’m living at the farmhouse, I barely have any expenses…you said it yourself. I should start my own business.” 

Lydia stared blankly for a moment. “‘Albatross’ it is,” she said, and tucked one of the chips onto the tray of finishes she had been curating.  Brandon sighed loudly in a show of annoyance. “Feed me and we can talk,” she conceded, coming around the desk and heading toward the break room. “And you better have gotten my sesame vinaigrette,” she called over he shoulder. 

---

Brandon spent the rest of the afternoon imagining a life where he was his own boss—the clients, the freedom to pick and choose projects, the creative license in his own gallery. For the first time since Anthony had departed, he felt awake.  Just imagining a company name and what font it would be in had him smiling to himself on the car ride home. 

Kyle’s pick-up truck was in the driveway when Brandon pulled in. He invigoration he had felt in his reverie quickly converted to a purring sensation as he drew up to the back of the trailer, and it wasn’t the hybrid engine under his hood. Was it grass-cutting time again already? he thought almost giddily as he slammed the car door shut. A blue-gray haze was hanging in the west, and it was obvious that the tidy, still rows of corn that stretched out beneath it would soon be thrashing in a storm that would hopefully slice through the heat. Kyle would be departing soon. Where was he?

Brandon couldn’t hear the drone of a mower or the whine of a trimmer. He scanned the front yard, a long pie wedge of grass that rambled down to the road with the corn bordering one side and the split rail fence that followed the bending drive on the other. No Kyle. Just the telltale silvery patterns in the uniformly cut turf that proved he had been there. 

He passed the abandoned zero-turn mower by the edge of the patio, still clicking rhythmically as it cooled. The sun was just being overtaken by the first edges of the storm’s haze as he crossed the backyard, diffusing into a milky white sky that transformed the crisply cut shadows at the bases of the trees into dark smudges in the grass. Brandon walked between the garage and the dilapidated outbuilding Anthony had called the “woodshed.”  It was a wooden structure that had seen so many seasons it no longer bore any discernible trace of paint.  It leaned slightly away from the garage as though it was embarrassed to be situated directly next to a cement block building with an integrity so contrary to its own—solid and plumb, whereas it spited gravity mostly out of force of habit.

The building was fairly useless—it had a cement floor so old and pitted it may as well have been earthen. Most of the windows had been reduced to glass shards and sagging glazing.  But Brandon had discovered its rusty lean-to style tin roof had the most remarkable ability to channel vast quantities of rain water, which he had convinced Anthony to divert into a barrel. The plan had been to bury a network of hoses in the yard and run them to key points along the beds that surrounded the house since gentle slope of the yard would provide all the pressure they would need. But like everything else, the project was interrupted and sat as a monument to unrealized potential. Much like our relationship, Brandon thought sullenly as he passed the barrel, full of water that was never used. 

The first low reverberation of thunder shuddered over the corn and off the side of the garage as Brandon arrived at the very back of the yard and found Kyle. He was using loppers to remove the lowest branches of the vast, gnarled cherry tree that stood sentry at the back corner of the property. Even under the dark canopy of the jagged leaves, Brandon could see the dark parabola of sweat on the back of his shirt. 

“There you are,” Brandon called as he approached the tree. Kyle turned and smiled from between the branches. 

“Aw, hey!  Yeah—I’ve hit my head on these low branches for the last time.” He smiled sheepishly as he pushed through the leaves and stepped into the wan pre-storm light. He was glowing from his exertions in the heat.  A tuft of hair protruded from above the closure of his signature backwards cap, it’s normally-ginger color sun bleached into pale ash. “How have you been?” he asked pleasantly, letting the pair of loppers hang in his hand by his leg. 

“Good, good.” Why did he repeat himself like that? Was it to fluff up and augment the very little he actually had to say?  “Surviving the heat.”  His eyes followed the pointing lopper blades down Kyle’s khaki dry fit pants to his feet. The rounded caps of the Kujo Jags showed amongst the stray foliage that littered the grass around the tree, like to black eggs in a leafy nest. “It must be murder for you at this time of year. I at least have some amount of AC in my life,” he concluded, watching Kyle as he ran the back of his blue work glove across his brow.  Damn, his wrists were sexy.  They were broad and strong and disappearing into the flared cuffs of the gloves, which lent them an alluring mystique, much like the way socks stretched into shoes. He remembered the first day he had really been turned on by Anthony—the way he rested his hand over the shifter on the Jeep, his wrist wrapped in his army watch.

Kyle swung the loppers up and rested them on a shoulder, shifting his balance comfortably to one leg. “Eh,” he said dismissively.  “The heat you get used to. I enjoy this kind of work.  Especially when you can see the difference.”

Brandon gave a nod that he understood. “I’m kind of the indoor counterpart to that.  I enjoy a fresh coat of paint or wiring in a new light. Although I’ve got to tell you,” he shook his head and chuckled, “I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a renovation mess in the house just recently.”

Kyle’s eyebrows shot up past the curl of hair. “Oh yeah? How’s that?” 

Brandon turned and looked between the woodshed and the garage at his bedroom window, as though it were a cue card. “Took an old acoustic tile ceiling down last weekend. But the ceiling up above it is a mess. Not sure what I’m going to do with it.”  He looked back at Kyle, who was listening with interest. Brandon saw a small twig had come to rest behind the front pull loop of his left Jag, a tender leaf curling against the hem of his pants. 

“Plaster?” Kyle stated it more than asked, a knowing tone in his voice. Brandon nodded.  “I’ve done a bit of work in old houses like this one,” he indicated the house with a small jerk of his head. “I could take a look if you want. See if I’ve got any ideas.”  The thought of Kyle coming into the house made Brandon’s heart quicken. 

“Really?”  Brandon heard his voice sound almost too hopeful. “I don’t want to put you out.” 

Kyle swung the loppers down from his shoulder. “Not at all.  Just need to finish up here before the weather,” he added as another rumble echoed across the field.