Spread Thin, A story by D.C. Martin

Wesley Phillips needed to change his life. He was out of shape, divorced, and lonely. Moving to a new city and starting a new job would fix that. But his pursuit of a beautiful stranger set him on a path not only of recovery but of compassion. After springing into action to save the life of a mysterious old man, he begins to feel manipulated. Will he find love in a new romance, or will his misgivings about the old man prove to be warranted?  

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Wesley Phillips always thought he would start running one day. He pulled a pair of track pants out of one of his boxes and walked down the street in front of his complex. He waited for something to tell him when to begin. He saw a gorgeous woman running in his direction. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon and the July sun made her perfectly resplendent as she approached the stoplight. She got there and stopped as the traffic went by, still for a moment. The sunlight outlined her edges. For a second, she reminded him of his ex-wife, but her hair was a bit darker and she didn’t have the ridiculous dragonfly tattoo on her forearm. He never missed her, but it’s hard to let go of things. Especially the anger, which he directed mostly at himself. He should have seen it, he should have been stronger.

She stood at the edge of the crosswalk, breathed out with her whole body twice and then set herself in beautiful motion across the street. She wasn’t moving very fast, but she was moving so gracefully. Every part of her was working in harmony. Even her ponytailed hair flowed in a gently bouncing rhythm. He stood there for a moment, taking in everything about his surroundings. The whir of lawnmowers, the smell of fresh-cut grass. The sun’s warmth and the bright blue sky.

Wesley decided to follow her. It made sense, she knew what she was doing. She probably had a perfect route. He took his first step, he ran. His strides were modest, but strong. He was going to work hard to become a better man. He was going to leave the old Wesley chasing behind. He tried to find her pace, her cadence. Soon fatigue set in and he looked at his watch, confused and frustrated by what he saw—57 seconds. He was completely exhausted. His fury was interrupted by bouts of heavy breathing and pacing. She flew into the distance. Her perfume triggered a memory of the rosebush from his house in Toronto. He got in trouble once for clipping a bouquet for the prettiest girl in his second grade class. Wesley hunched over and decorated the sidewalk with sweat. She was gone.

He passed the mirror on his way to the shower and saw the man who was following the runner. He was too old, too divorced, too out-of-shape. He wondered what happened to the man who used to look back at him 20 years ago, going to the gym every day and flexing his muscles for instant approval. His confidence was shattered, even as his mirror stayed intact. He lived his whole life as an overly cautious person. He never jaywalked, never changed lanes without signaling. It didn’t protect him from getting hurt, but he was a rule-follower—he trusted rules, trusted people. Trust leads to betrayal. But he wouldn’t get betrayed again. He had left her and all the rest of them behind. He was stronger now, wiser.

People always told Wesley that he needed to take more risks. Get out there, make an online dating profile. He started by moving away from everything holding him back. His loneliness finally provoked a change; it provided the motivation he needed. He had to stop living in the past and start moving on from the pain it caused. He could reinvent himself however he liked. He had no one left to criticize him, no one left to drag him down, no one left to question him later. No one cared about him anymore, no one even cared that he left. He still felt confined but he couldn’t complain, he couldn’t lean on his friends any more. They were thoroughly finished with him. He had already used them as his amateur psychiatric team. But he took all of their advice, he took all of the steps.

Wesley already set his mind at ease about it, getting the new place looking somewhat respectable, to him anyway. Moving to a smaller city would be a fresh start. He hung things on the walls. His degrees, some nice drapes. In fact, the place was starting to look pretty decent and “breezy” in the warm sun of a beautiful summer morning. Maybe not the reveal on a home renovation show, but good enough. What he couldn’t get used to was the absence of her. Not that he wanted her back, he never wanted to see her again. But she was always there, providing constancy. Not love, but constancy. He couldn’t believe he never saw it coming. All the signs were there. But the anger turned into self-doubt and he was closing in on acceptance. She had not replaced him with a better man, she had replaced him with a shallower version of herself. She was probably better off that way, and so was he. The place was certainly looking better, yet somewhat empty. Lonely. He was excited about starting his new job in September. Teaching Grade 6 would be a new challenge, but with challenges come opportunities.

The next day, Wesley ran in the opposite direction. She wouldn’t catch him out of breath, she would see him striding forward. Besides, it was a lot less stalkery. He would catch her eye and smile. It would go on like that for a few days, maybe a week. Then he would ask her a question, maybe about the weather. He took it slow. Not just his strides, but his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It seemed to be working, his body was running in harmony with his breathing. He was not going to give up so easily. A big jump from 57 seconds, three minutes and sixteen seconds this time. He watched the drops of sweat hit the sidewalk again, he felt the weight of his body pressing down, he felt his heart pounding and lungs begging for relief. He heard her approach. There was enough time to make himself lurch forward and appear to be running. She was stunning, but more attractive was her inviting presence. As they passed she made eye contact and flashed an unforgettable smile. He wondered what she liked, besides running. Italian food, sushi, Thai? She was just so natural and genuine. Wesley pressed on until she was completely gone. It was a good day.

The route was about 5K and it wound through lots of gradual hills and valleys in pretty, sleepy neighborhoods. Mature trees and empty nests. It was quiet and shady and secluded. He watched a proud old cat turn her gaze over to Wesley before she pushed her front legs out for a stretch and got back to her nap. He breathed in a hint from the peonies in a lovely front garden. They were blooming, but bowing down on their own weight. He nodded back to a nice old couple having a stroll. He looked over at a small porch. Two Muskoka chairs. A lonely old man was perched on one of them, giving Wesley a respectful nod. This was the kind of place where people looked up. They didn’t ignore you. Maybe he would buy a house here one day, maybe with her.

It became a routine. His strength and endurance grew. When he saw her on the horizon he would just press on as she did, always looking up to meet her eyes for a nod or a smile. Wesley began to see running as more than just a chore, or a means to an end. He was actually starting to enjoy it. He created checkpoints for himself. Stoplight, corner with the peonies, porch with the nodding old man.

Weeks went by and Wesley could feel himself getting stronger. He was always recording a better time. One day he noticed something a little strange. He veered around an old Chevy, probably a ‘97, backed out on the street slightly, stopped. As he ran by, he noticed the driver side door was half-opened. The driver looked as if he was trying to get out but couldn’t.

“Hey, are you alright?” Wesley asked.

The old man’s head rested on the steering wheel. He was clutching his chest and struggling to breathe. Wesley immediately went into First-Aid mode.

“I’m calling an ambulance!”

Wesley waited in the hospital with the man for more than an hour, making sure he was alright. Hooked up to oxygen, but he was stable. 82 beats per minute—pretty good for someone who just had a heart attack.

“I don’t know why you’re still here,” the man said. It was a fair question; there was no moral obligation. The man was clearly traumatized by what happened. Wesley sensed guilt, too. Maybe there was a reason he was all alone on his porch every day. Maybe he lost everybody. Maybe he abandoned everyone and was starting over.

“So what happened, anyway?”

“Well, it’s ’cause my heart doesn’t work too good any more.” He looked away and toward the window.

Wesley got to his feet and headed to the door, turned back a bit and asked, “I don’t mean to pry, but does your wife—”

“Dead.”

“—your kids—”

“Never had ’em.”

He never turned to look. He just stared out the window. It made Wesley really struggle to figure out his next move. Should he offer to drive him home? Leave his phone number?He waited.

“How are you going to get home?”

“I don’t know.” The man turned to him and repeated, “I don’t know.”

Wesley needed to help. It would be good to finally make a connection for the first time since he moved. He needed to start somewhere.

Wesley couldn’t recall a better summer. The scent of lavender still held its place in the air, and the cicadas provided the heartbeat for a day that could be lived well. He changed his routine so he could check up on the old man. If Wesley didn’t help him, no one else would. He ran early in the morning, but he still got to see her. Her route ran right past the old man’s porch.

“Quiet, here she comes,” the old man said as he grabbed his beer from the side table on the porch.

The new friends heard the rhythm of the footfalls and the breathing, they saw the gently flowing hair. They nodded as she passed and they both received a smile as her feet pressed their way up the little hill on Elmdale Avenue.

They clinked their bottles and smiled. “I wonder,” the old man began, “how many admirers she has along her route. I betcha we’re not the only ones.”

Wesley took a long drink.

“So what do you do?” the old man asked, setting the bottle down and moving into a more judgmental posture, like he was interviewing Wesley for a job.

Wesley laughed a little and said, “You know that you haven’t even told me your name? Don’t worry, I know it from our adventure in the hospital. Anyway, I’m a teacher, Mr. Telford.”

“Teacher, eh? Must be nice.”

“I suppose it is. I’ve had some pretty vicious students, though. There was this one young man who—”

“Summers off…plus you’re nothing more than a glorified babysitter.”

Wesley thought about getting up and walking home. Nobody understood how hard he worked, how it pushed down on him, how year after year they became more difficult to manage and more pressure was applied. More demands and longer hours were eating away at him, tearing flesh from bone. Never enough time to spend with his friends, or notice his ex-wife’s affair. But he was starting over. All of that would change now. A new school is a new opportunity. When he turned back he got a stupid grin. He shook his head and laughed. The friends tilted their beers.

“You should ask her out,” Mr. Telford said after finishing another beer.

“I don’t know. She’s probably married.”

“Doubt it,” he said. “They still wear wedding rings, most of ’em. She strikes me as the type who would. Her running outfits cost lots and her earrings are real sparkly. I feel like if she was married, she’d be wearing a real fancy deal.”

The maple in the front yard waved a little at a distant wind. Wesley could see her, a candle lighting her face, a glass of wine in front of her. She was laughing and tucking her hair behind her ears. Mr. Telford flipped the cap off his next beer and said, “You’re a fool to let her pass you by. If I were a younger man, I’d—”

“What do you know about it? You don’t even have a—”

“Missus? I did, though. Forty goddamn years. I’d watch your step, son.”

Mr. Telford’s eyes shone icy-blue. His sinewy forearms were sunburnt red and his knuckles went white as he gripped the beveled edge of the Muskoka chair. A little breeze awakened the wind chime on an empty porch across the street.

“You never told me what you did.”

Mr. Telford sniffed the air.

“You remember Duffy’s out on the 20?”

“It was a hardware store, right?”

“I handled deliveries, installations, made connections on the side. You need someone to fertilize your lawn, seal your driveway? I’d do that. Good thing, too, ’cause when Duffy’s shut down, I had to make do on those odd jobs to survive.”

Mr. Telford got to his feet, which surprised Wesley. “See that driveway ’cross the way? Just sealed it a couple months ago.”

“Looks great,” Wesley said, trying to seem impressed.

“Doesn’t it, though? See, most of those companies spread the product too thin, that’s why it’s shiny, not matte like my formula. The stuff they use is garbage. What I do is…”

Wesley got distant for a moment. He thought about how he was spread thin. Living his life based on someone else’s goals, someone else’s expectations. Starting now, he would focus on his own life, his own work. He would make friends eventually, maybe even find someone, but he wasn’t in a rush this time. Experience made him less vulnerable. He knew better, he could start over. He could stop worrying so much about making everybody else happy. He could start taking care of himself for once. He was ready to live his own life on his own terms.

“…I make my own formula for fertilizer, too,” Mr. Telford said. “If you look at that remarkably green lawn just down the street, that’s my work, too. No one can beat my fertilizer. I came up with it when I was working for Duffy himself. I’m a whizz with chemistry. It’s all about…” Mr. Telford had to flick a mosquito off his forearm. There was a gentle hum as a street light turned on. “It’s getting near dark. You come back tomorrow, if you want. But bring more beer. A six pack isn’t enough for the two of us.”

Wesley retrieved his beer and emptied it quickly. “Well, I’m off now. Have a wonderful evening, Mr. Telford.”

The next day, Mr. Telford wasn’t on the porch. He was always on the porch. Wesley knocked on the screen door. Then he pulled the aluminum frame back with a terrible squeak and poked his head in the house. The screen door slammed behind him. It bounced off the frame twice and then settled shut.

“Mr. Telford?”

He walked down the front hall. There was a picture of a much younger Mr. Telford with a young bride who was quite pretty. He couldn’t pull his attention away from the woman. She seemed to speak to him. He finally dragged his gaze away, but felt her presence as he walked up the stairs.

Wesley caught something from the corner of his eye. It was Mr. Telford, crumpled up on the bedroom carpet. He let go of the beer and it smashed on the hallway floor.

Wesley promised to take care of the house while Mr. Telford recuperated in the hospital. He collected the mail and kept an eye on things. There were some letters addressed to Sandra Telford, who must have been Mr. Telford’s wife. Odd. He assumed Mr. Telford lost her a long time ago.

Wesley was getting concerned about the approaching storm. Old houses like this get flooded. The door to the basement was locked, which seemed strange, but everything about Mr. Telford was strange. Wesley was given very clear instructions in the hospital: “Don’t even go into the basement. I’ve let that place go to hell.” He decided to check how the basement would do from outside. The sky was getting darker, it was quiet and still. Wesley felt a cool wind tickle the back of his neck. He walked around to the back of the house and pulled on the window to see if it was secure and it just squeaked right open. The top part of the latch had completely rusted away.

It was obvious the basement would get flooded if Wesley didn’t act. He went through Mr. Telford’s basement window the same way he did when he locked himself out of his house when he was twelve. Forgetting your key meant something very bad would happen. Wesley put his feet through to keep the window open and then slid backwards from his stomach. He had to be careful to keep himself higher than the jagged edge of the broken latch. There was a moment when he wondered if he might just slide back and get his neck trapped as the awning window closed in on it. Mr. Telford would find him dead a few days later and say something like, “Told that damn fool not to go into the basement.”

He let the window close on its own and he was in complete darkness. He opened the window again. It wasn’t just filthy on the outside, it was painted on the inside. He wondered why Mr. Telford would do that. He grabbed a stick from the window-well and propped the window with it. His eyes adjusted as he scanned to find the staircase. There was a strong smell that Wesley couldn’t place. He carefully made his way up the bare wooden stairs.

There was a light with a string at the top. He pulled it. On first inspection, the basement didn’t look messy, but it was still dark. At the bottom of the stairs, another string light lit up the basement quite well. It turned out to be remarkably clean. There were barrels with caution labels, some “Airport Grade” asphalt sealant and things that Wesley could only figure were measuring devices and random lab equipment. It had that industrial kind of smell. That’s what it was—chemicals. Heavy and unpleasant. He noticed a system of pulleys and chains on the ceiling, and a shiny red wheelbarrow in the corner. There was also a pretty nicely stocked workbench, a dehumidifier that must have been from the seventies, a chest freezer and a clawfoot tub, sitting awkwardly in the middle of the room. What was he hiding down here?

He went to inspect the windows. All painted white. The other two were locked tight in addition to being painted shut. He found a hammer easily. It was on one of those pegboards. Old people always have pegboards. All the tools were outlined in Magic Marker. Everything had a purpose, a place. Wesley wished for a moment that he belonged somewhere. He took a few nails from a baby food jar that was screwed under the top shelf of the immaculately-kept workbench. He grabbed the caulking gun and was ready to seal the window.

He needed to put a nail through the inside of the sill to get it to stay fixed tight. He used a 3 inch spiral, which was probably excessive, but it would definitely keep it secure. He pounded it in about an inch and a half so it could be taken back out when the latch was properly fixed. He carefully sealed around the window. Nothing will get through that.

Welsey put everything back exactly as it had been on the workbench. He panned across the room. The dehumidifier switched off, and it was silent, empty and lonely. What was lurking in the shadows here? The chest freezer turned on and he walked toward it slowly. What’s the old guy got in there? He stopped. He wasn’t even supposed to go down into the basement. He was startled by a loud crack of thunder and went back up the stairs. It was already raining, so he decided to run home.

The first drops hit him. Then he saw lightning in the distance and the thunder became louder, closer. The hard drops moved across him, across the street in sheets. Two shocks of light strobed just to his left and slowed him almost to a halt. Then a great crack of thunder stopped him dead in his tracks. He stood there for a moment, air pushing out and pulling in, his body expressing the full extent of exhaustion and fear. There was no hiding, no way to escape. Quickly, the rumbling passed and the lightning retreated. The only drops that hit him now came from the wake of the storm.

Wesley turned the key but didn’t put the Chevy in gear. “I had to go into the basement—”

“What the hell’d you do that for?”

“There was supposed to be this major storm. I was doing you a favor.”

“You’re a damn fool. I don’t know why I ever trusted you.”

The old man fumed for the entire drive to the house. Wesley ran to the passenger side and offered a hand to help Mr. Telford out of the car, which was refused. He stood there while the old man slowly went up the front steps. When he finally got to the door, he turned and said, “Sorry about what I said. You did the right thing. Coming by tomorrow for the show?”

In a way, Wesley thought it might be better if they parted ways here and now. He definitely didn’t need to get used again. But that suspicion came from the old Wesley, the new Wesley takes chances. Besides, someone needed to keep an eye on the old guy.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Wesley still couldn’t help thinking that he crossed a line, like he had betrayed Mr. Telford’s trust. It would be hard to earn it back. He began thinking about his ex-wife, how much he trusted her. How she knew it and used it to her advantage. Was this just another broken relationship to add to the list?

Wesley ran a new personal best the next morning. When he looked in the mirror he liked what he saw. His muscles were firm, not like they were when he was twenty, but firm. He turned to the side and smiled a little at the new Wesley. He would talk to her, he would get to know her. This was going to work. The routine resumed as if nothing had ever happened. The two friends settled into their Muskoka chairs. After the first lap, Wesley spoke.

“If you don’t mind my asking, have you ever considered selling that old clawfoot tub? You’d probably get a grand for it.”

“I don’t think I’ll do that. In fact, I’d prefer it if you’d just keep that whole thing to yourself, considering how easy it was for you to get down there.”

“You’re worried someone’s going to steal it?” Wesley was a little drunk. He had celebrated his newfound fitness before walking over. “How the hell would someone get it out of there? Those things weigh a ton.”

“I’d appreciate you keeping your voice down.”

“Sorry, but nobody is coming to rob a clawfoot tub from your basement, old man.” Wesley’s voice elevated. An old couple walking by stopped to look. It wasn’t a polite smile this time.

The friends observed the rest of the laps in silence.

“Tomorrow, Mr. Telford?” Wesley asked.

“Tomorrow,” Mr. Telford agreed.

Wesley was going to apologize right off the bat. He had too much to drink and he embarrassed his friend in front of the neighbors—that was unacceptable. Always take the high road, even when others don’t. Then he would thank Mr. Telford for his advice about asking her out. On her last lap, he would wave her over and invite her to have a cold beer. It would all make sense, it was ruthlessly hot. He was going to be confident, he was going to be charming.

The outing began with a familiar start. Mr. Telford’s car was almost in the street like it had been at the beginning of the summer. Welsey ran over to the car, just as he had two months ago. But this time he got run down by the old Chevy. The last thing he heard was the engine roar as Mr. Telford floored the accelerator.

Wesley saw her in slow motion running towards him. He saw her beautiful perspiration, the pearls of sweat shone as they held on her face and shimmered as they fell from the edge of her jaw, or dragged their lines down from the crest of her chin. He heard the breathing. Its sweetness, its cadence, its pulse. He watched her hair flow behind her in a perfect symphony of motion. He was rewarded with the transcendent smile as she stopped in front of him.

“My name is Wesley,” he said.

Wesley woke to the sound of the dehumidifier. It was a quick tick, a rattle and then a low hum. Panic struck him. He couldn’t see. It was pitch black. He realized that he was restrained in a reclined position in cold water. A strange sensation all over his body. Where am I? It was the smell that brought him back. He was in the vintage clawfoot bathtub in Mr. Telford’s basement. He felt the strap that went around the tub in front of his chest and then the duct tape around his wrists, his ankles. He didn’t want to scream, but even if he had, the duct tape over his mouth made it impossible. He recalled the labels he saw on the chemical barrels the last time he was in the basement. Their warnings were actually quite dire. He was probably reclining in a soup of it right now. He began thinking about the pretty young lady in the wedding picture. The unspoken-of Mrs. Telford. Why was this nest empty? The only description of her: Dead. Like it was just a fact to Mr. Telford.

Wesley wondered if she had lain in this fine vintage tub, too. Maybe there were more, maybe a lot more. He couldn’t believe he didn’t see this coming. He needed to think. He needed a plan. He listened for a while and it was clear that Mr. Telford was not on the main floor unless he was asleep or completely still. Any movement in this old house would be instantly audible.

He tried pushing himself up headfirst to the top of the tub, but his bound hands caught on the strap. Some ribs had been broken when he was hit, and he was probably nursing a concussion. Every movement was excruciating, but what little energy he had, he needed to conserve for a real escape attempt. He would have to slip his head and shoulders under the strap. It would mean allowing the chemicals to get to his face, if only for a short time. It also might force the strap to peel back the duct tape covering his mouth. He forced his jaw to open fully, over and over, feeling the strands of his stubble pull away.

Wesley held his breath, closed his eyes and descended into the goo. Why did he come back to the old man’s house? Why didn’t he see the signs? He pushed his chin and then the rest of his head under the strap, rubbing his chin against it to loosen the tape on his mouth. He finally got his mouth free and then set about pulling his head up on the other side as his calves hooked around the back end of the tub, keeping him from sliding back with the retreating wave. He needed to breathe in hard, but the toxic air burned his insides—all the way to his lungs. He tried to slow his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He flung his duct-taped wrists around his knees and allowed his body some time to adjust. He could feel the chemicals burning, but was able to pull his head forward and chew through the duct tape until his hands separated. He had to spit constantly as he tasted the vile solution, his lips and gums felt like they were burning. But he was through. Then he pushed down on the smooth curved sides of the clawfoot until he propelled himself toward the ground, where he landed with a thud.

The combination of his body hitting the floor and the crashing wave of solvent roused the owner of the house. Wesley could hear him creaking down the stairs fast. There was no time to separate his feet from the duct tape. Every part of his body hurt and everything was emitting vapor that made it very hard to breathe. He didn’t want to think about his naked body, burning and disintegrating; he wanted to escape. He just wanted to get back to that moment when he thought he was ready to make it all work. He wanted to get back to when he had a chance to talk to her.

He was moving quite swiftly across the floor in a crouched position, dragging his bound feet behind. He felt the workbench, climbed high enough and retrieved the hammer from where he remembered its Magic Marker outline. The footsteps creaked quickly across the kitchen. His window of opportunity was closing. His legs were on fire. There were sounds like what you would expect from the burning embers of a backyard bonfire. He felt for the window ledge and then set about prying out the 3 inch spiral. He clawed it and used his palm to knock the handle down hard, but it just bent the nail. A key turned the lock at the top of the stairs. Wesley turned the hammer around and pounded the nail down, but the window still wouldn’t open as it would catch on the head of the nail. When he fixed the window, he sealed his fate. The final nail in his coffin was the damn 3 inch spiral.

Wesley used the hammer to smash the glass. The light burned his eyes and made his neck snap back. He looked down at his arms and breathed in the scale of his deterioration. Layers of flesh were utterly disintegrated and the light seemed to activate the chemicals in some way, making them burn more aggressively, making the pain more vivid, more raw. There were thick bubbles of flesh around the edges, where he was not fully submerged, and great dark cavities with exposed layers of tissue and bone farther down. The first string light pulled and Mr. Telford’s footsteps went down the stairs. Wesley used the handle of the hammer to remove a few shards of glass from the edges of the window before the ascent. He was going to be able to make this work, he was going to emerge from the basement and get back to his new life. He flung the hammer forward as he jumped hoping that it would anchor him. With his last ounce of strength, he pulled his body through the window and immediately shredded his midsection. The shards of glass that remained in the sash ripped through him as he struggled. He screamed, he tried one last pull, he tried not to give up. He felt the grip on his ankles, he felt it all slipping away, he felt everything dissolve. The loss of blood forced him out of consciousness.

Mr. Telford had his beer in front of him and he was ready for the afternoon’s entertainment. After her first lap he turned his head to admire the runner and then raised his beer and looked at the empty Muskoka chair beside him. It just wasn’t the same. In some ways, he wished he was more like Wesley.

For her second lap something completely unexpected happened. The focus shifted away from the distance. She was walking over. She stood at the end of the driveway and said, “Hi.” She caught her breath a little. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir.”

“No bother, I’m sure, miss,” he said, more than a little bit rattled.

“I’m Petra, by the way.”

“Fred,” Mr. Telford replied. He wished he could spring to his feet.

“I’m just wondering what happened to your son. He was always sitting beside you drinking a beer when I would pass by.”

Mr. Telford was very keen to halt her curiosity. “He wasn’t my son,” he replied. “I don’t have a son. That guy, he left town, needed to go to where he can work, that’s all.”

“Is he coming back?” the runner asked, looking far too concerned.

Mr. Telford was sick of this whole mess. It was hard enough dragging Wesley across the basement floor by his feet. His body got caught a couple times on the sash of the window and required a few good yanks before he could get it on the floor, leaking everywhere. Not to mention getting him back into the damn tub.

“Don’t think so. Why would he? Nothing for him here.” He sincerely hoped that would do it. He never meant for any of this to happen.

“That’s too bad. I was trying to work up the nerve to talk to him, maybe ask him out.” The runner seemed a little nervous, shy even. She looked like she might just walk away for a minute, but she pressed on. “I’m not ready to give up on him yet.” She walked up the stairs and then fell into Wesley’s Muskoka chair. “Driveway looks super, by the way. Which company did you use?”

The driveway was a perfect, matte-finish black.

Mr. Telford couldn’t believe she was actually here. He never thought of her as a real person, she was more like a character on a TV show.

“Did that myself. Special formula. All those big companies spread thin, that’s why my formula’s better. Secret is: you gotta spread it thick. That’s what makes it look so great.”

“You got a beer?” she asked.

“Sure do. Just one sec.” He flung himself out of his chair and then sat back down again in obvious discomfort. “Just give me a second,” he said, “I can’t move as fast as you.”

“That’s okay, sir. Another time.” The runner got to her feet.

“Don’t leave me so soon. An old guy like me doesn’t get a lot of chances to talk to someone, you know.” Mr. Telford paused. “You could get the beer yourself. It’s in the freezer in the basement. Just head down there and get us a couple of cold ones.”

The runner entered the house and turned through the opened basement door. She pulled the light on and descended the stairs. Mr. Telford got to his feet slowly and followed. He needed to change like Wesley did. After this, he would reinvent himself, move to a new town. He would have to. He turned his beer bottle around and gripped it tight around the neck, watching a few drops speckle the top stair.

“I love your old clawfoot tub, sir. You know how much those are worth?”

The runner screamed when she opened the freezer and saw the missus. Mr. Telford hoped the neighbors didn’t hear. He should have fixed the damn window.//

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