Your ears fill with the complaints of rusty gears as you screech to a halt at the edge of the curb. Planting the soles of your converse firmly on the pavement, you pause to catch your breath. You check to make sure that a certain poster canister is still nestled snugly in your messenger bag. It is, so you extract it, hang the bag's strap from the handlebar of your bike, and swing yourself off.
According to your calculations, since today is Day Six, you should be initiating Stage Two, Annoyance. So it is with hesitation that you make your way to the front porch and ring the doorbell.
For the first time in a while, it is Mr. Egbert who answers the front door. "Dave," he grunts, looking down at you in displeasure. You get the feeling that John has informed him in detail of the situation. "It's…nice to see you." He makes no move to offer to call his son.
"You too, sir," you smile forcibly. After a few moments, you add, "Is John home?" The man only nods and moves back into the house. A few strained minutes later, a boy dressed in blue replaces his father's form in the doorway. All is silent, except for the static-y sound of dry leaves rustling across the sidewalk.
"Hi, Dave," John says, and for a moment it's just like the old days, and you wonder why you ruined it with all this romance business in the first place. But then his eyes flick down to the object in your hands, and you hold it out to him. You don't say anything, as it seems somehow inappropriate regarding the situation to profess your love for him (for the sixth time in one week). And besides, you aren't really up to hearing him tell you that he's not a homosexual (again, for the sixth time in one week). So you leave both numbers at five and let him make the next move.
Quietly, his hands clamp around the cardboard container. Looking down and biting his lip, he mutters, "I thought I told you to stop doing this." Hesitantly, you reach forward, and tilt his head up at his chin. He doesn't move away, but he still refuses to look at you.
"I can't," you explain, before withdrawing your hand. He nods like he understands, even though he can't possibly. You take a few steps backwards as the door closes. Once it does, you retreat to a spot in the front yard from which you can see through his bedroom window. Watching him enter his room, you cringe as he flings the poster angrily at the wall. Then his head disappears from view as he collapses on the floor. You feel your heart do the same.