That? Oh, that’s the soapy residue left behind when my bubble burst.
In my backyard, there is a tree. Or rather, my backyard is a tree. A 40 foot spruce, that litters my yard with pine cones and blocks all sunlight to a patch of the neighbor’s prized lawn. Every time there is a serious gust of wind, I know the tree is going to come through my bedroom window. The tree must go.
My husband, Owen, has been doing some work for an arborist. (No, not that one.) They’ve worked out a deal, to trade tree care for plumbing. The arborist came over to assess the situation. I didn’t know he was coming; I just looked out the window one morning and saw my husband talking to a stranger.
And then the stranger turned around.
Oh. Holy. Shit.
This guy was gorgeous. Uncomfortably so. Hot in a manly man kind of way. In an “I fix shit and I’m strong and the wattage of my smile powers small nations” way. If he’s not already, he ought to be in one of those hot firemen calendars, but not the oiled-up-waxed-chest-we’re-actually-aiming-at-gay-guys-but-thanks-for-your-interest calendars.
I am in the middle of making lunch/getting the boy’s school snack ready/pulling my fighting kids apart. I curse my lack of shower (or tooth brushing) (or hair brushing) (Never stop by my house without calling first). Clearly I am in no condition to go outside. So I stay in the kitchen, hoping neither the arborist nor my husband notices my trance-like staring.
The arborist leaves, Owen comes into the house.
“So, that’s the tree guy?”
“Yeah, he says he can probably do it…”
“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME HE WAS FREAKIN’ HOT?”
“You think he’s good looking?” Owen smiles.
“Hmm.” Then his smile gets a little bigger.
“You think he’s hot, you should see his wife.”