The Chimney's Keeper

There's a brigade. An anti-sleep brigade. I was super comfortable and sound asleep in bed. You know when you're just so perfectly wrapped up in your blankets, when the temperature is just right, when your sheets just feel so damn good and even smell nice? What? I like sleeping. Anyway, I was there. It was bliss. And then the doorbell rang.

I'm going to tear that thing out of the wall. Both of them. I don't care if people can't get to the back of the house. I'll rip that one out too.

I jumped out of bed, partly due to surprise, partly due to the fact that I thought I was dreaming. By the time I realized I wasn't, I heard knocking on the window. I ran down the stairs in my pyjamas. I forgot my glasses. When I opened the door, the guy was almost back in his truck. He saw me or heard me. Either way, he came back. So there I was. Completely dishevelled, in my ratty pyjamas, blind and half-asleep. Sexy and I know it. The dude just looked at me. His name was Paul. He was there for the chimney. Add confused to the list of things I was at that moment. He was holding a business card and was sort of, kind of, flashing it. Whatever. I couldn't read it anyway. I think he realized that and told me he would go around back and wait for me to unlock the gate.

I ran back up to my room, put on my glasses, searched for my keys and, yes, still in my pyjamas, went to my backyard. First thought: HOLY CRAP IT'S HOT! And it was only 10:00 at that point. I tried unlocking the gate. It wouldn't work. My glasses, thank God I got those... I might have never figured out I was using the wrong key. Once I got the right key, lifted and tugged the gate just right, I was able to let Paul into our back yard. To be honest, I'd already forgotten his name and was mentally calling him Burt. He stared at the chimney for a couple of minutes. He mumbled some stuff that I assume was directed at me. I just stood there, wondering if I was really necessary at that point. Turns out I was. In his Italian accent, Paul finally shows me his business card, and asks if the number scrawled in pen is a number at which he can reach my father. I stare for a while, identify the numbers, process the numbers, remember the numbers and tell him that it's my dad's cell number and that if he called after four, he'd be sure to get my dad. Paul said he'd call at six. I thought: Okay, but you realize six isn't four right?

Paul let himself out. I lifted, tugged and locked the gate behind him. When I got back to my room and stared at my bed longingly, I knew it was too late. The moment had passed.

Paul called at 6:02 PM.

Lauren.