You are enjoying your afternoon pipe in the golden light of the late sun on your front porch when you first see him. He is strolling down the sidewalk with his hands tucked into his pockets and not a care in the world. The hot tip of the cigarette stands out against the shadows cast on his face, making his dark skin even darker. The sun behind him though made his blonde hair glow like a halo around his head. And his ears.
You blink several times, but your vision doesn't clear any more and you have to accept what your eyes tell you. The boy has two ears sitting atop his head, protruding through his hair. They were an even lighter blonde than the surrounding locks, but they matched the long tail swaying behind him, it's length equaled by its volume. But even from this distance you can see the knots and tangles burled in it.
Actually the distance isn't too far any more as it seems that the young man is now walking up your front walk. He comes up all the way to your porch and then onto your porch. He leans against one of the posts and looks for all intents and purposes like he belongs there. (And somewhere in the back of your mind you think he does.)
His hand finally slips out of his pocket up to pull the cigarette out of his mouth and knock the ash off. He slips it back between his lips and takes a deep breath, holds it for a second, and then blows it out. Your eyes track the cloud all the way back to his lips and then up to his eyes but you find those are blocked by the harsh reflection of the sun bouncing off of the dark lenses of oddly shaped sunglasses. The sharp angles stick out past his narrow face and don't quite seem to suit him.
"Hey, old man," his voice is smooth like velvet, "I need a shower."
You are taken aback a little at his abruptness. Asking, no, demanding a shower even though you don't know his name, haven't seen him before, and have had literally no interaction with him other than standing on your porch with him. Which he is mostly trespassing on.
But as you gawk, covering your pause with a draw on your pipe, you notice things about him. The ratty nature of his tail is only the start of the wear and tear on his appearance. The edges of his jeans are ragged, in points worn all the way through. His t-shirt is threadbare and stained in small places that look like he tried to wash them out repeatedly. His shoes are well loved converses. And by well loved you mean falling apart.
There are dark circles under his eyes, nearly black against his skin, but his lips are pale. You noticed dirt under his fingertips before he tucked his hand away again. You can put together the rest of the picture from those bits and pieces. When he asks for a shower, he really needs one.
But why come to you? Why stop in front of your house? You suppose it might have to do with the you are the only one outside at this time of day despite its comfort. Why was he even in this neighborhood? He looks like he would be more comfortable in the middle of the city, surrounded by the noise and people, rather than out here in quiet suburbia. None of it makes sense. But you'll never find out unless,
"Alright," you agree. You catch an almost imperceptible twitch of what you think is surprise. But he covers it with a another graceful draw on his cigarette. But then he crushes it out in the flower pot's soil. You frown a bit but can't really contradict him as it is the safest place to put out fire on a wooden deck. You take that as the signal to tamp out your pipe as well.
You open the front door and wave a welcoming arm to draw him inside as you put your pipe down into its usual resting point on the front hall table.
There is soft whistle behind you. "Nice digs, old man. I almost thought that these would be quaint on the outside junky on the inside houses. Or maybe it's just yours that is put together. My sample size is too small to make assumptions. And you know what they say about assumptions. They'll make an ass out of you and me. Well that cuteness only really works with the word 'assume' not 'assumption' because what are you supposed to do with all those extra letters besides drink the tea and turn it into pee but I don't really think that's appropriate talk for a guest who hasn't even had a shower now, is it?"
"No, I suppose not," you chuckle as you close the door behind him. "Shoes off."
He nearly trips over himself as he kicks them off, catching his balance only just before knocking the vase off of the nearby table. You hide your smile by turning away towards the stairs leading up to the second floor. You hear him padding along behind you like a whisper. You feel the heat of his body as you stop abruptly in front of the hallway closet. You didn't realize he has been quite that close to you. He takes a step back as you reach in and grab some fresh towels for him.
"Forgive me, I haven't replaced the towels since my son last visited. I wasn't expecting any other visitors between his spring break and his summer vacation."
"If those towels are really as fluffy as they look, I wouldn't mind rolling in someone else's dead skin cells to get dry after a nice hot shower, but I appreciate the freshness and the honesty because I don't think your kid's skin cells would want to meet me so intimately. Not that I am going to do anything obscene to your towels, old man, just need to make sure every square inch is as dry as possible otherwise my fur frizzes up like you wouldn't believe and an afro tail ain't as attractive as it sounds."
"Here we are..." you trail off as you still don't know his name. You've invited this young man into your house all the way up to the second floor and you still don't have his name.
Though instead of picking up on the subtle clues he grabs the towels out of your hands and ducks into the bathroom. "Thanks, old man. Anything tricky 'bout the shower?"
"No... I don't think anyone has had an issue with them before."
"Sweet. Catch ya on the flipside, old man," he closes the door somewhat on your face with a hint of a smile peeking though. "And by flipside I mean when I am clean. Promise I ain't gonna run up your water bill, but damn I need some me time."
"I understand. Take your time," you automatically offer before wandering away. If he is really going to take some 'me time' in there then it wouldn't be prudent to stand and wait in front of the bathroom door. Instead you can go make some dinner you decide. You have that salmon that you picked up the other day. Broiled salmon with a wasabi cream sauce and green beans on the side. Your doctor would surely approve of that meal.
You go downstairs into the familiar realm of your kitchen and start assembling ingredients. You have just slid the seasoned salmon into your oven as you hear a call from upstairs.
"Old man! Hey old man!"
You close the oven door and then go upstairs to your guest. "Yes?" Again you are left hanging without a name.
The bathroom door opens with a cloud of steam which you take as indication that he is done with his shower. It didn't go quite as long as you thought. "Hey old man, I need some clothes," he peeks around the corner bare chest first.
Then the door swings all the way open and his dignity is saved by a conveniently placed tail despite having a towel slung over his shoulder. Now that you can see (so much) more of him, the contrast between his dark skin and pale hair stands out. But all of that is forgotten when you finally see his eyes, his shades sitting fogged up on the counter. His eyes are bright red, and it's startling but at the same time... fitting.
"But I ain't giving them back after I'm done mostly because of the obvious arrangements I'll have to make to the pants because I have yet to find a pair that fit comfortably under my tail without that particular edit. I got no excuse for the shirt 'cept my old rag is really only good for the can unless you have some magic restoration potion for it, some phoenix down for cotton shirts."
"Let me see what I can find." His rambling broke you out of your staring that was starting to border on awkward. You turn away and head to your son's room. His possessions are more likely to fit the young man in your bathroom than your own. And your son hopefully won't mind you picking from this selection seeing as he did leave these behind when he moved out to his college apartment. Though he has a different build from your guest. Your son is broader and shorter whereas your guest is slim and tall.
So jean pants are out, you think to yourself, holding up the particular piece of clothing and deciding to spare your guest the awkwardness of trying on the high waters. You dig deeper into the chest drawers until you find an old pair of shorts. They were a size smaller than your boy now which might fit your guest's waist and the length is mostly irrelevant. The condition while used was still faring better than your guest's jeans were; another article of clothing deemed fit for the trash. You also grab a t-shirt similar to your guest's previous one and then debate over bringing him a pair of underwear. You never know who will be picky about undergarments but you decide to let him decide to wear them or not. With the articles of clothing in hand, you return to the bathroom.
"Here you go, son," you announce as you pass him the clothes, pointedly not checking if his tail is covering him. But by looking up you do notice his ears twitch at the moniker. "There is a pair of scissors in the medicine cabinet for your alteration needs. If you require anything else, I am merely downstairs." He nods his thanks and then closes the door on you again, a little bit gentler this time.
You return to the kitchen just as the timer for the broiler goes off and you pull out the perfectly golden brown salmon and return to making the rest of the sides and the sauce. And you are just putting on the final touches when he shows up again. He's just casually leaning against the doorframe. The only reason you know he is there is because you move so much around the kitchen that there isn't anywhere he could hide from you. Not that he is hiding from you.
"Hey old man, what's for dinner?"
"Salmon with wasabi cream and green beans."
"Pair that with a cold one and there isn't anything on that list I don't like."
"A cold one?" You raise an eyebrow at that. You had him pegged at being your son's age, maybe just a little bit older, but not by the couple of years needed to causally request a beer with dinner.
"Yeah, a tall apple juice if you don't mind." He pushes off the wall and moves towards the island where you have all the food prepared. His hand pauses over the two plates waiting but it's only momentary before he's heaping food onto one of them. You smile at him and go to prepare drinks for the two of you, apple juice for him (from your son's stash) and ice water for yourself.
When you turn back around, you catch him leaning over the table for one of the rolls you have in a basket in the middle of the island and you notice that he really did cut a hole into the pants just under the waistband between his back pockets. Then he's dropping two rolls onto either plate and handing one to you. You nod your head at your full hands and he huffs a small laugh.
"Dinner table?"
"The room to the left.
"Cool."
The two of you sit down at the table and you relax into the atmosphere. Even when your son was here, the two of you didn't sit at the table. He was running around hanging out with all of his old pre-college friends. So it's comforting nostalgia you feel as you sit with your guest.
You don't comment when you notice him bowing his head briefly. But then he is digging into his food and moaning loudly. The sounds he is making is nearly indecent, making you blush a little, but he doesn't comment on that either. You start to tuck into your dinner as well.
"M' ame 'z 'ave."
"Don't speak with your mouth full please."
He quickly swallows, looks tempted to take another bite, but then he dabs at his mouth with a napkin. "My name is Dave."
"Pleasure to meet you, Dave. I'm-"
"Ain't seen anyone so nice and this good of a cook. I'd ask for your secrets but then I wouldn't need you to cook for me anymore and that would be a shame because you seriously know your way around the kitchen because this is magic. I mean, it's pure gold in my mouth. I didn't know wasabi could take this good. Mostly I use that stuff to clean out my sinuses because otherwise I like my bait fresh and clean and fairly unmolested. Like sashimi is the best with tuna being the top. Well, the rankings might be shifted now because of this magnificent masterpiece in front of me which I am ignoring and obviously need to rectify immediately." And he goes back to eating with gusto.
You meanwhile have quietly finished off your piece of salmon. You enjoy the long rambles he seems to fall into. The cadence of his voice is soothing and it lets you learn about him in small bits and pieces. It's also flattering to hear someone enjoy your food. Your son lost the need to comment on it because it was so common place. You are sure that after a year of college he'll start up again if winter break was any indication of things to come.
The conversation around mouthful of dinner encompass smaller topics from cooking techniques and flavor combinations that Dave's experienced and you have used before to the beautiful weather that you were enjoying just before he walked into your life. You don't bring up where he came from or his unique situation. Instead you get a couple more glimpses of who he is from the rambles interspersed between bites.
After he clears his plate of all bits of food, you notice him staring at the pool of cream sauce on the plate. You also notice that his glass is empty.
"Would you like some more juice?" you ask upon standing.
"Oh hell yeah, yes please." You see him reach for his plate out of the corner of your eye as you exit the room. You don't comment on his plate's particular cleanliness when you return. Or the dab of cream on the tip of his nose that he furiously brushes away with the shoulder of his shirt when he finally notices it. The shirt hangs loosely on him but it's in much better shape than his previous one.
You chat a little bit more over your second glasses and you happen to learn that he's originally from Texas which explains the small bit of accent he slips in and out of during his rambles. He's relatively new to the Washington area and you are just glad he came during the end of spring with the state his clothes were in. He wouldn't have done well with the northern winters.
Eventually you collect the plates and take them to the kitchen to quickly wash up. He follows along, his bare feet making almost no noise against the tile. He leans up against the counter and watches you fill the sink with hot soapy water. You own a dishwashing machine and it's in perfect working condition but you've gotten into the habit of hand washing everything, especially since it's usually just you. The silence that falls over the sound of rushing water is companionable and not awkward. At least for you. But you think him as well, as you don't notice any twitching coming from him. His ears are up in a relaxed position at the top of his head and his tail swishes languidly by his knees. It looks to be in much better condition now. You wonder how much conditioner he used on it.
When you start to put the wet dishes on the rack to air dry, you are pleasantly surprised when he leans forward, picks up a dish towel, and starts drying them off. You are much appreciative especially after as soon as you finish with the last dirty pan, you simply dry your hands and then return all of the dishes to their proper location and restoring order to your kitchen once again. His eyes track you across the room, as if noting where each thing belongs.
When you are done you invite him into the living room where you usually watch the evening news to keep track of the world that goes on outside. It's usually not very pleasant but you should not turn a blind eye to it just because it is unpleasant.
You are just about to sit down in your usual leather recliner when he speaks up.
"Hey old man, ya got a brush around here? Not that ratty old thing up in the bathroom that I think has something growing on it. Your kid prolly took all the good ones, hoarding them so he can correct his bouffant at any given time," Dave continues to ramble as you nod and head to the guest bathroom to see if you have any spares there. You'll need one with stiff wide bristles to get through his tail, which is what you assume is the purpose of the errand. "He probably keeps a couple tucked up under his sleeves so that he can whip it out any time he catches his reflection in a near by mirror, window, reflection on someone else sunglasses. I've actually had that one happen to me. Someone used my shades as a mirror while I was still wearing them. Do you know how awkward it was to have someone checking to see if they had anything in their teeth that close up. And they did. They actually had a piece of broccoli tucked all up in their grill. Wow yes, that is the perfect brush."
He almost snags the green plastic brush out of your hands but his self control comes back just in time. You put the brush into his hands and he nearly rushes back to the couch. You say nearly because while he moved quickly, he was with graceful supine movements that made you think of water slipping away. By the time you reach your recliner and manage to sit down this time, he's curled up on one end of the couch with his tail laid against his thigh and the brush running through it smoothly. You flick on the television just to remind yourself that it is rude to stare at your guests. That doesn't stop you from watching out of the corner of your eye the care he takes to work out each and every knot out of his tail until every fur lays straight. He gives it an experimental flick out in the space next to him before curling it back around himself with sleek, shiny grace.
You barely manage to turn your head back to the screen before he looks up, but the small smirk on his lips makes you believe he still caught you looking. But at the same time he seems to preen under the attention so you don't think he minds too much. He continues to stroke his tail while the two of you watch the news and it makes you wonder how soft the white fur really is.
He actually yawns before you just as the news is ending. You aren't sure of the protocol for hosting a... you don't quite want to call him a stray, but it's hard not to with what you've gleaned from the situation. He hasn't mentioned any other family or any other home besides the one in far away Texas. You doubt he has one here is Washington otherwise he would have left by now. You aren't one to turn away a guest, even if he more stranger than friend. But how to pose the offer to him?
"Hey old man, I-" he interrupts himself with another yawn which reminds you of the dark circles under his eyes, "I need a bed. I mean, at this point I'd take the couch or even the kitchen table with a few blankets of course. And a pillow would be nice. A nice firm one, not one of those floppy too soft ones that you just sink right through until your head is touching the mattress and you wonder what's the point as you are smothered with the two sides of the pillow that didn't quite deflate when you touched them."
"With my son absent, I do indeed have a spare bedroom if you don't mind some slightly stale sheets."
"Do you hear me complaining, old man? I just announced that I'd take a fleece dog bed on the porch if that meant I could get some shut eye on a surface softer than concrete."
"Shall we retire for the night?"
"I think that would be a good idea before I keel over outta exhaustion," he agrees with you as you both climb to your feet. You lead the way again upstairs and he follows you as you show the way to your son's room. But just as you push open your son's door, he walks past you to the next door down the hall, your room.
"Hey old man, I'm taking this one." He says it like a statement but his brows are knit together in uncertainty. He looks so pitiful standing there in the silhouette of your doorway, shoulders hunched higher than he probably wants, tail tucked closely against his legs, ears flattened. Who are you to deny him?
"Sleep well, Dave," you tell him before stepping into your son's room. You hope that he is an early riser so that you won't disturb him in the morning when you need to change into tomorrow's outfit. But you push the worries out of you head as you strip down to your boxers and crawl into your son's bed, catching whiffs of the young man's cologne. You hadn't had a chance to wash sheets after spring break. Honestly you were only planning on washing them just before he returned home for summer. That's what you get for procrastinating, you think as you drift off to sleep.