Page 112 of Mourner for Hire
I wait for him to laugh and quip and call me funny or right. I wait a full five seconds for him to drop his guard. I hope he does, at least. I want this pensive asshole of a personality to crack and for the man I met a year ago to reveal himself. Then I realize, maybe he’s not in there. Maybe in the months since we’ve seen each other, a new version of the good-natured man with an apron, heavy-handed pour, and dimples for days disappeared.
Still, he doesn’t speak. Instead, he takes the spackle and dips it into the wet mud, scooping out a baseball-sized amount and slapping it on the wall. It splatters like a paintball all over the wall and all over my dress.
My jaw drops, and I wipe the mud that has landed on my forehead. “Really?”
“You want chaos, Vada? Let’s go crazy.” He whacks another splat of mud on the wall.
I shake my head. “You aren’t even putting it in the right spot.”
“Really? Then show me how it’s done.”
I don’t think he means for me to talk him throughit, but it feels that way, and still, my thighs clench together without permission.
He offers the spatula to me, and I take it, spreading the mud from the globs on the drywall to the taped seams. When one side is done, I think better of what I’m doing and tap his nose with the wet spatula. He freezes, jaw set.
“Dominic the mud-nosed reindeer,” I sing as he dips his index and middle finger in the mud.
I know it’s coming, and I don’t back away. I welcome it.
Surprising me, he smears a streak over my forehead. “Simba.”
I crack, laughing as I dip my own fingers in the mud and put streaks under his eyes like a football player. “We will be perfect! In every aspect of the game. You miss a pass, you run a mile.”
He smiles and nods like he’s impressed. “Remember The Titans?”
I grin. “Love that movie.”
“I don’t care if you like each other or not, but you will respect each other.”
I stare at him, the truce he’s asked for rushing to the forefront of my brain.
“Fitting—” I start, but he gently slaps a mud-soaked hand on my face, most definitely leaving a handprint.
My jaw drops in shock at the audacity.
“Oh. You’re gonna get it!” I shriek, muddying him up wherever I can.
He restrains my wrists, then lets me overpower him so I can run mud in his hair. Another hand slides up his forearm, just as he smears mud over my collarbones.
He’s laughing.
I’m screaming.
Joy echoes in the cottage.
A voice in the distance calls like a breeze, “Just as it should be.”
We don’t stop. It’s a frenzied fight until we’re both covered in drywall mud from the hardware store. I don’t know who surrenders first, but all at once, we sit back, covered in sage-colored mud, laughing with tears leaking out of our eyes.
We pause, breathless.
“I ruined your dress,” he says, raking his eyes over me.
I look down at the blue linen. “You sure did.”
“I’ll buy you a new one.”
“No, you won’t,” I say, standing. I reach out a hand to helppull him up. Though it’s more of a gesture, he could pull me down before I even think about holding my ground. “But you will go jump in the ocean with me.”
