“I know,” I whispered. A cold draft was coming in from the kitchen window and I shivered. “It’ll get easier.”
He was still there when I jogged back, wiping sweat off his forehead. It was dark but I could see how cute he was, even if I didn’t get a consistent blow by blow by my girlfriends. Maybe he was a bit too rugged for my taste, I thought, with his scruffy facial hair and messy hair. I always went for the all-American, classically good-looking guy-next-door type. I spotted a sprawling tattoo on his forearm but I couldn’t make out what it was, exactly. I met his eyes and the light on his garage hit them just right. The soulfulness in them struck me. Yeah, definitely not the guy next door, even though he lived next door.
I slapped my forehead and shuddered at my lameness. How the fuck could you possibly enjoy a shovel?