Two Of A Kind

Morton Rainey

It is said that a person can usually tell a lot about another person on how they speak and how they express themselves. In short, their own first impressions. It is said, that in usual discourse, your impression can either be appreciated or scorned. And being a writer, Brooke Riley was usually very keen on first meetings and as the person or persons presented themselves, she would dissect them, and right away would know by how they acted and determined whether to continue the already one-sided conversation.

But she did not, like most of the other encounters, anticipate this one . . .

This rather pleasant one.

Most women, or so I have seen for myself, find that there aren't enough attractive, blood boiling, men, and if they perchance happen upon one, they are either taken or homosexual. She hoped, no, prayed, that this one did not qualify for either situation.

She didn't really expect to get with this man upon their first encounter. She was just getting over a most hurried and one-sided divorce, so she wasn't looking for a relationship.

No . . . she just couldn't resist the prospect of talking to one of the gorgeous clan.

After getting over the initial shock of this man on her lawn, she realized that all she could she was the back of his dirty blond head, and furthermore, she assumed that he was staring avidly at her house. Why, She didn't know.

"Hey!" she yelled, not really angrily, just in order to g t his attention.

Well, his attention she had, and she found her lungs punctured like a needle had been pushed through them. As her air was slowly regained, she started a slow pace toward the now curiously staring man and obedient golden retriever lying at his feet, trying to pursue a beetle without having to actually chase him.

His hair, like she saw before, was a dirty blond and accentuated the olive complexion of his skin splendidly. It seemed to have been through the trials and tribulations of attempted grooming. Apparently he gave up, and decided to finger through the tangles, but the effect was still the desired one. A favorite phrase of hers . . . shitty but effective.

He wore a velvet red-collared shirt that he left open to reveal a black T-shirt, tucked into a pair of black jeans leading to a pair of white sneakers with black linings in various parts of the leather. A little foreign to her tank top and denim shorts, but she assumed and felt actually, that it was a lot cooler than that of the traffic induced New Jersey.

As she got closer, she noticed a slight build, not rippling, but pleasant, as he stood there with a hand on his lean hip. His face was sharply chiseled. Not in muscle, but in the hallows that were found in every bone structure, but more of a gaunt presence. His nose was sharply angled and his cheekbones were a feminist high, but seemed to suit him satisfactorily. His eyes were what pleased her most. The orbs, which seemed to float in a creamy white of pure milk, were chocolate colored, and seemed to have the hot quality of a fire's hearth as it beats off your skin after spending a day salvaging through the fierce, barricading forces of an oncoming blizzard. That certain chill you feel when you've discover that perhaps someone's eyes are following you, and causes you to turn abruptly the other way, as a hot blush creeps its way on your face. A chill that creeps into your very heart and jolts it slightly, to see if you're still alive.

"Hello. Pardon my intrusion." He said in greeting with a small smile.

"Oh it's quite all right. I think . . . I mean . . . um."

Why do I always have to be such a dike when I meet someone? She was more frustrated with herself than to analyze whether he was making an adequate impression or not. His smile was enough.

She tried again.

"Um . . . Why exactly are you here?"

He chuckled slightly, a pleasant melodious baritone, and she felt that suspenseful chill jolting her.

"Um. Hi I'm Morton Rainey. You can call me Mort. And the reason I'm here is because I heard that someone was moving into the house that hadn't been occupied for more than 12 years, so curiosity got the better of me, and Jack needed a walk, and I decided to check it out."

"Oh, well, I-I'll be living here. D-Do you live around here?" Brooke asked, as quickly as possible, as if hoping he wouldn't notice her nervous stutter.

"Yeah, through those woods. Maybe even a few blocks if you think in terms of sidewalks." He pointed through a patch of woods, but they were too thick with branches and leaves that you couldn't see anything that he might be pointing at.

"Oh. You walked through that?"

"Oh no, we walked along the street."

"Oh."

Silence issued for a moment, where the both of them watched Jack, and his fruitless attempts with the insect.

"So," Mort interrupted the silence with what seemed like a booming voice, turning his attention once Jack had caught the bastard, "do you have a name, or shall I just guess?" he said with a slight smirk from the left corner of his mouth.

"Oh, yeah. I'm cough . I'm Brooke Riley."

"A beautiful name."

"Yeah well, haven't found any good use with it except to sign papers."

She hadn't intended it to be a joke, but he laughed anyway, seeing past your maybe not

so obvious sarcasm.

"Well Brooke, it was lovely to have met you." She glanced at the long fingered hand outstretched to her.

She held it and then looked at his mouth. Some might say it was poetic.

"My pleasure."

And she let go of his hand. But neither of them could ignore the weird feeling of familiarness . . . of belonging in the simple gesture, and Mort stared in awe after her, as Brooke disappeared into her brand-new house.

"That's very interesting."

Mort then left for his own house, forgetting about Jack. And Jack sensing this, sulked behind from lack of attention.