It Ends with Us

That chair must be made from marine-grade polymer.
I once watched my father back over an outdoor patio table made of
marine-grade polymer, and it practically laughed at him. Dented his
bumper, but didn’t even put a scratch on the table.
This guy must realize he’s no match for such a high-quality material,
because he finally stops kicking the chair. He’s now standing over it, his
hands clenched in fists at his sides. To be honest, I’m a little envious. Here
this guy is, taking his aggression out on patio furniture like a champ. He’s
obviously had a shitty day, as have I, but whereas I keep my aggression
pent up until it manifests in the form of passive-aggressiveness, this guy
actually has an outlet.
My outlet used to be gardening. Any time I was stressed, I’d just go out
to the backyard and pull every single weed I could find. But since the day I
moved to Boston two years ago, I haven’t had a backyard. Or a patio. I
don’t even have weeds.
Maybe I need to invest in a marine-grade polymer patio chair.
I stare at the guy a moment longer, wondering if he’s ever going to
move. He’s just standing there, staring down at the chair. His hands aren’t
in fists anymore. They’re resting on his hips, and I notice for the first time
how his shirt doesn’t fit him very well around his biceps. It fits him
everywhere else, but his arms are huge. He begins fishing around in his
pockets until he finds what he’s looking for and—in what I’m sure is
probably an effort to release even more of his aggression—he lights up a
joint.
I’m twenty-three, I’ve been through college and have done this very
same recreational drug a time or two. I’m not going to judge this guy for
feeling the need to toke up in private. But that’s the thing—he’s 
not
in
private. He just doesn’t know that yet.
He takes in a long drag of his joint and starts to turn back toward the
ledge. He notices me on the exhale. He stops walking the second our eyes

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meet. His expression holds no shock, nor does it hold amusement when
he sees me. He’s about ten feet away, but there’s enough light from the
stars that I can see his eyes as they slowly drag over my body without
revealing a single thought. This guy holds his cards well. His gaze is narrow
and his mouth is drawn tight, like a male version of the 
Mona Lisa
.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I feel his voice in my stomach. That’s not good. Voices should stop at
the ears, but sometimes—not very often at all, actually—a voice will
penetrate past my ears and reverberate straight down through my body.
He has one of those voices. Deep, confident, and a little bit like butter.
When I don’t answer him, he brings the joint back to his mouth and
takes another hit.
“Lily,” I finally say. 
I hate my voice.
It sounds too weak to even reach his
ears from here, much less reverberate inside 
his
body.
He lifts his chin a little and nudges his head toward me. “Will you
please get down from there, Lily?”
It isn’t until he says this that I notice his posture. He’s standing straight
up now, rigid even. Almost as if he’s nervous I’m going to fall. 
I’m not.
This
ledge is at least a foot wide, and I’m mostly on the roof side. I could easily
catch myself before I fell, not to mention I’ve got the wind in my favor.
I glance down at my legs and then back up at him. “No, thanks. I’m
quite comfortable where I am.”
He turns a little, like he can’t look straight at me. “Please get down.” It’s
more of a demand now, despite his use of the word 
please
. “There are
seven empty chairs up here.”
“Almost six,” I correct, reminding him that he just tried to murder one
of them. He doesn’t find the humor in my response. When I fail to follow
his orders, he takes a couple of steps closer.
“You are a mere three inches from falling to your death. I’ve been
around enough of that for one day.” He motions for me to get down
again. “You’re making me nervous. Not to mention ruining my high.”
I roll my eyes and swing my legs over. “Heaven forbid a joint go to
waste.” I hop down and wipe my hands across my jeans. “Better?” I say as I
walk toward him.
He lets out a rush of air, as if seeing me on the ledge actually had him
holding his breath. I pass him to head for the side of the roof with the

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better view, and as I do, I can’t help but notice how unfortunately cute he
is.
No. Cute is an insult.
This guy is