A
summer cold. Who the hell got a summer cold? The very name was an affront—an
oxymoron. Summer was hot. Cold by definition was for winter. A summer
cold was both a mistake and an accusation, as if he were less than he should
be, weaker, inept, inexperienced, advancing into dotage somehow, although at 27,
the right side of 30, he liked to say, he clearly was not.
Sabena
asked him if he’d been out in the sun—his nose was that red.
Clarice
wondered if there’d been a family emergency—the red eyes.
Jessica
wondered if he was dieting—the scrawny neck.
“No,
a summer cold,” he croaked, his ruffled voice forcing its way through clogged
sinuses.
“Oh,
sorry,” Sabena said as she backed away. (Yes, she literally backed away, then
turned and ran.)
Clarice
nodded sympathetically, “Poor baby,” she muttered. “You should take better care
of yourself.”
“It’s
not my fault,” he said and an hour later repeated it to Jessica when she said,
“Oh, yuck!” and covered her lovely mouth with the smooth hand he had yet to
hold.
“Not
my fault,” he said for the third time. “It’ll pass.” He tried to relax. He knew tension made
his neck ropey and thin and hunched his shoulders around his chest.
“Feeling better already,” he said and was going to say something like
“looking at you would make anybody . . . “ or should he say any man, emphasizing his maleness? No, he
should say, being with you—emphasis
on you—or should he speak her name
specifically? Probably. He started again. “Just being near you, Jessica, would
make any man feel better.” Good.
“Especially
this man,” he said. Better.
But
it was too late. She’d scooped up her papers as he was talking—well, whispering
adenoidedly—they were in the library—and she was ten feet away by the time he
got it all out.
She
did turn and give the little tata
wave women like her had perfected, which meant she’d heard the man part of his speech. He hoped.
©
2013 Kathleen Coskran
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