James

When he gives me the finger, I laugh. What a punk. If he only knew the things I could do to him with just one finger.

I return to my work, hammering the worn roof tiles into pieces, making sure they are small enough to scrape away.

I'm probably pounding harder than I need to be. Who the hell am I kidding? I know I am.

With every smash of the hammer, I imagine him gasping for breath, his face red and hot with anger.

If he doesn't cool down soon he's going to explode.

The thought makes me groan.


Riley

Pacing the kitchen – safe in a room with windows facing the backyard, I consider my options.

I could ignore him and grab a longboard. The surf will be up; I can see the tops of the trees at the back of the house bending toward the right.

I could go mow the lawn next door. I do it through the summer in exchange for six-packs of beer from my neighbor.

Or, I could call Jake and ask him to come over.

He's an exhibitionist.

Making out with him on the porch could be amusing on several levels.