He tipped his chin and said, “I’ll be back.”

Then I was staring at my closed door.

I did this blankly for awhile. Then I did it for awhile wishing I’d shared with someone that I was in love with my Ten Point Five neighbor so I could call them or race across the breezeway and ask them what I should do now.

It took a while but I decided to act naturally. So Mitch had been in my house. He’d grinned at me. I’d discovered he had beautiful hands and beautiful eyelashes to match all the other beautiful things about him. He actually was a nice guy and didn’t just communicate this knowledge with a warm smile, what with turning off my water, going to get his tools, finding my shredded doohickey, planning to have a word at the office on my behalf and then heading out to the hardware store to buy me another doohickey. So what? After he fixed my faucet, he’d be back in his apartment and I’d be in mine. Maybe I might say something more than “morning” to him in the mornings. And maybe he’d say my name again sometime in the future. But that would be it.

So I did what I normally did. I changed my clothes, taking off my skirt, blouse and heels and putting on a pair of jeans and a Chicago Cubs t-shirt. I pulled the pins out of my chignon, sifted my fingers through my hair and pulled it back in a ponytail with a red ponytail holder to go with the red accents in my Cubs tee. Then I lit the scented candles in my living room and turned on music, going with my “Chill Out at Home Part Trois” playlist that included some really good tunes. After that I started to make dinner.

I was cutting up veggies for stir fry when there was a knock on the door and my head came up. I spied the candles, heard The Allman Brothers singing “Midnight Rider” and immediately panicked. I burned candles and listened to music all the time. I was a sensory person and I liked the sounds and smells. But now I wondered if he’d think he’d walked into a Two Point Five setting the mood for an illegal maneuver on a Ten Point Five.

Crap!

No time to do anything about it now. He’d smell it anyway and he had to hear the music through the door.

I rushed to the door, did the peephole thing and opened it, coming to stand at its edge.

“Hey,” I greeted, trying to sound cool. “You’re back.”

His eyes dropped to my chest and I lost all semblance of cool. There wasn’t much to lose but what little existed was quickly history.

Then his eyes came back to mine. “You’re a Cubs fan?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered then declared, “They’re the best team in the history of baseball.”

He walked in and I closed the door. Through this neither of us lost eye contact. This was because he was smiling at me like I was unbelievably amusing and this was because I was staring at him because he was smiling at me like I was unbelievably amusing.

He came to a halt two feet in and I turned from the closed door which meant I was about a foot away from him.

“They haven’t won a pennant since 1908,” he informed me.

“So?” I asked.

“That fact in and of itself means they aren’t the best team in the history of baseball.”

This was true. It was also false.

“Okay, I amend my statement. They’re the coolest most interesting team in the history of baseball. They have the best fans because their fans don’t care if they win or lose; we’re die-hard and always will be.”

His eyes warmed like they always did before he’d smile at me and I felt my knees wobble.

“Can’t argue with that,” he muttered.

I pressed my lips together and hoped I didn’t get lightheaded.

“Colorado bleeds black and purple in spring and summer, though, Mara. Careful where you wear that tee,” he warned.

“I like the Rockies too,” I replied.

He shook his head, turning toward my hall.

“Can’t swing both ways,” he said as he moved into the hall.

I watched him move. I liked watching him move. I liked it more watching him move down my hallway toward my bedroom. I knew I liked it so much I would fantasize the impossible fantasy that such a vision would happen so often it would become commonplace.

I wondered if I could call out to him that I really needed to run an errand. Like say, take care of an old relative who needed me to get her out of her wheelchair and into her bed. Then read her a bedtime story because she was blind. Something I couldn’t get out of that would make me seem kind and loving but would really be an excuse to escape him.

Then I realized that would be rude and I followed him.

When I hit the bathroom, he said, “This shouldn’t take long and you can get back to making dinner.”

Oh boy.

Should I ask him to stay for dinner? I had plenty. He was a big guy but I still had enough. I just had to cut up another chicken breast or two. Add a few more veggies.

Could I survive a dinner with him? Would he think candles, music and dinner was a play he had to somehow extricate himself out of without seeming like a dick? Or would he know it was just my way of saying thanks?

Crap!

I listened as “Midnight Rider” became America’s “Ventura Highway” and I did what I had to do.

“Would you like to stay for dinner as an, um…thank you for helping out?” I asked. “I’m making stir fry,” I went on.

“Rain check,” he told the faucet, not even looking at me and I was immensely disappointed. So much so I felt it crushing my chest at the same time I was not as relieved because his answer meant all was right in Mara World.

Then he continued talking, making Mara World rock on its foundations.

“Knock on my door when you’re makin’ your barbeque chicken pizza.”

I blinked at his head.

Then I breathed, “What?”

“Derek tells me it’s the shit.”

I blinked at his head again.

They talked about me?

Why would they do that?

Derek was definitely a firm Nine. LaTanya was too. Nines could be friends with Two Point Fives but male Nines didn’t talk to each other about Two Point Fives. They talked about other Sevens to Tens. If they were younger or were jerks, they made fun of Ones to Threes. But they never talked about Two Point Fives and the really great pizza Two Point Fives could make. Ever.

His head tipped back and his eyes hit mine. “Derek tells me your barbeque chicken pizza is the shit,” he repeated and explained, “as in, really f**kin’ good.”