Today is a hash-mash, hardscrabble, unorganized stack of things sitting in the corner but far enough out from the wall that it threatens to fall over. I stand near the door in the sunlight, eating cotton candy from a bag. To go, Lochlan says and he laughs. I refuse to accept a big paper cone, I want to keep clean when I'm not eating it. My fingers are sticky, filthy but I still have my eye on the stack because when it does topple I'm incredibly sure that nothing will break.
The barn is cool, a break from the sun. I have lined up big squares of decorative glass. It looks a little like sea glass but also nothing like it. These could be plates, with pulled-up corners so nothing slides off. Very modern and yet they are vintage. I have found them everywhere, breaking into old barns, touring around tiny antique shops set far down country roads, the kind you want to avoid at night or if your truck isn't in very working condition. The people watch me with their handful of teeth hidden in closed mouths. They think I am suspect and different. Oh, isn't that the tip of the iceberg.
I smile and opt to buy nothing because I already have enough plates. Why I persist in setting up house with such strange things leaves everyone tired and prone to fits of yelling and frisbeeing plates into the fences. A delightful, satisfying crack-smash against barbed wire and wooden posts. Then we are running. Eventually someone is seen patrolling the fence with a long gun propped against one shoulder and I raise my eyebrows and open my mouth in a little O-shape. Would they really shoot us for breaking some plates?
Lochlan nods. Time to go, bee. He doesn't say it, I just see it because I can read his mind. He puts his head down against my ear and whispers hot hamburger sandwiches and my belly rumbles in response. That means the diner so I lick my fingertips and then tie a knot in the top of the bag. I still have a good three lunches out of this left if I ration the sticky blue strands of sugar that remain.
He puts the plates that are left in a grimy canvas bag and holds his other hand out to take my hand. I jump off the barn floor, down two feet onto the grass because the step is missing and we walk out toward the road. On the way back he will produce a candy ring for me to eat and pretend to marry me. I say yes because I don't care, I just want the sweets and I know he isn't going anywhere. It seems to make him really happy and he turns up the stereo in the truck even though it is cutting in and out now and soon we'll have no music again but he always fixes everything.
Always.
