Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Everything looks different from up here. Because of the height of this roof, all the other houses seem small in comparison.
There are loose shingles lying in a pile next to a toolbox at Samson’s feet. “Is this one of your five rent houses?”
“No. Just helping my friend Marjorie. She’s got a leak.” The roof up here has two levels, one just a couple of feet higher than the other. Samson steps onto the second level and puts his hands on his hips. “Come here.”
Once I’m standing next to him, he points in the opposite direction of the ocean. “You can see the sunset over the bay from up here.”
I look in the direction he’s pointing and the sky is ablaze on the other side of the peninsula. Reds and purples and pinks and blues, all swirled together.
“Marjorie has the tallest house in the neighborhood. You can see the entire peninsula.”
I spin in a slow circle, admiring the view. The bay is lit up with splashes of colors so bright, it looks like a filter. I can see the entire beach as far as my eyes allow.
“It’s beautiful.”
Samson stares at the sunset for a moment, then hops down to the lower part of the split-level roof. He walks over to the toolbox, kneeling down next to it. He places a shingle on the roof and begins tacking it on.
Witnessing how he just moves about on this roof like he’s on level ground makes me unsteady on my own feet. I sit down.
“That’s all I wanted,” he says. “I know you like the sunrises, so I wanted you to see the sunset from up here.”
“Today’s sunrise actually depressed me.”
He nods, as if he knows exactly what I mean by that. “Yeah. Sometimes things are so pretty, it makes everything else a little less impressive.”
I watch him in silence for a while. He secures about five shingles in place while the sky eats up most of his light. He knows I’m watching him, but for some reason it doesn’t feel embarrassing to stare at him this time. It’s like he prefers me to be here than not. Kind of how it feels in the mornings when we sit on our respective balconies and don’t speak.
His hair is wet from sweat, so it’s a darker blond than normal. There’s a necklace hanging around his neck and every now and then when he moves, I can see a flash of a tan line beneath it. He must never take it off. It’s a piece of wood hanging from a thin black braided cord.
“Does your necklace have meaning?”
He nods, but doesn’t explain what that meaning is. He just keeps working.
“Are you going to tell me what it means?”
He shakes his head.
Okay, then.
I sigh. What am I even doing trying to have a conversation with him? I forgot what it’s like.
“Did you get a dog today?” he asks.
“I went for a walk. He followed me home.”
“I saw you feed him. He’s not leaving now.”
“I don’t mind.”
Samson eyes me for a moment, then wipes sweat away from his forehead with his arm. “What are Sara and Marcos doing tonight?”
I shrug. “She said something about a cookout.”
“Good. I’m starving.” He goes back to tacking shingles onto the roof.
“Who is Marjorie?” I ask.
“She owns this house. Her husband died a couple of years ago, so I help her out every now and then.”
I wonder how many people he knows in this neighborhood. Did he grow up in Texas? Where did he go to school? Why is he going to the Air Force? I have so many questions.
“How long have you had houses here?”
“I don’t have houses here,” he says. “My father does.”
“How long has your father had houses here?”
Samson takes a second to answer. “I don’t want to talk about my father’s houses.”
I chew on my lip. It seems like a lot of questions are off-limits with him. I hate it because it makes me even more curious. I don’t come across people who hoard secrets like I do. Most people want a listener. Someone they can spill everything to. Samson doesn’t want a listener. Neither do I. Which probably explains why conversations between us feel different than conversations I have with other people.
Our conversations feel splotchy. Like globs of ink and lots of white space.
Samson begins putting all his tools back in his toolbox. It’s still light out, but it won’t be for much longer. He stands up and comes back up to the top level, then sits down next to me on the roof.
I can feel the heat from his body, he’s so close.
He rests his elbows on his knees. He really is a beautiful person. It’s hard not to stare at people like him. But I think his charisma comes more from the way he carries himself than how he looks. He may have an artistic side.