Disconnect

We are reaching That Point in the conversation.

You know what I'm talking about, right? When you've gone through all the "here's what happened this week" highlights, and neither of you really has anything left to say, but be damned if you'll hang up? Damned if you'll admit you don't have hours worth of conversation between you, because you always used to, damn it. Or maybe you didn't- maybe it's just you're more aware of silence when you're holding a phone instead of a hand.

I lay back on the small brick wall that defines the boundry of my front porch, rest my heels high above my head on the corner column. My eyes wander from the fraying edges of my canvas shoes over to my neighbor's little harvest display, searching for a topic.

"You know what I like best about pumpkins?" Yeah, that's right- I just brought squash into it. But she's game.

"Their color?" Her voice sounds faded to me. I wonder if she's tired, if she's stressed, if she's more lonely than she's letting on and if she's eating right- or if it's just the connection.

"Well I do like their color," I admit. "All vivid like that one coat you always wear when it gets really cold,"

"That coat is red." Her voice holds the barest hint of an accusation, and I roll my eyes, dig one heel into the brick.

"I know that coat is red- I said it was vivid like the pumpkins, not the same shade." As if I could ever forget the color of that coat. As if I could ever forget any nuance of the image that makes up her.

"Oh. Sorry."

"Anyway it's not their color that I like the best. It's their stems." I can almost hear her narrowing her eyes on the other end. It's such a perfect mental picture that the corner of my lip tugs up. She does skepticism so well.

"...their stems?"

"Yep." The truth is I've never given much thought to pumpkins. But hey- it's what I've got right now, and as I reveal to her my Secret Love of Pumpkin Attributes, I find that it's actually true. So she's still teaching me things about myself, even from thousands of miles away. "I like that they look painted on."

"Okay, you've lost me."

"Pumpkin stems. They look like a fanciful brush-stroke added at the end of a painting, don't you think? A sort of flourish? You can see the texture of the bristles and everything." A warm breeze kicks up and brings with it the scent of the bleached grass in the yard. It makes me wonder how cold it is at her new place.

"You are by far the weirdest boy I know," but I can hear her smiling as she imagines some impressionist going around, brush heavy with paint, swirling on stems.

"I can't believe you've never noticed it. I'm totally sending you a pumpkin so you can see what I'm talking about."

"You do that. I want some candy corn, too."

"What, they don't have candy corn up there?"

"Probably- they probably have pumpkins, too. But stuff from the South is sweeter, you know?"

"I am so not taking that bait."

"Spoilsport."


(Temperature Disconnect)