Julia:Hello there.
Dylan:Hello back.
He was sanding a cedar plank, the rhythmic rasp of sandpaper against the quiet hum of the ventilation fan. He stopped and flexed his hands, the muscles in his forearms sharp from years of wrestling with stubborn timber.
Julia: Thank you for the fair warning. And for taking this little tangent off the main road.
Julia was curled on her window seat, avoiding doing laundry. A heap of clothes threatened to take over her reading nook.
Dylan:What else is there to talk about, besides wine?
Julia:(typing...)
Dylan:Just kidding! What does a professional building whisperer do on a Sunday?
Julia:Sundays mostly involve coffee. And avoiding laundry. Do you have a laundry avoidance mechanism?
Dylan:Good question. Restoring old wooden boats is my Sunday pastime.
Julia:Old wooden boats? Sounds tactile … And meditative.
Dylan:Would you say you’re a procrastinator in general, or is the laundry your main target for avoidance?
Julia:Very good question. Back at you. Avoiding anything in particular?
Dylan paused. He thought about the unopened mail on his desk, and everything else he’d been postponing. He picked up a piece of sandpaper, rubbing it against the cedar.
Dylan:A thorny truth, perhaps.
Julia:Thorny?
Dylan:Let’s say I’m in the middle of a long goodbye.
Julia:Ah, one of those …
Dylan:(He let out a short breath). It’s a tricky situation. You? What kind of things are you avoiding?
Julia:Me? The usual: sugar, professional backstabbers, boring dates, anything that reads ’one size fits all,’ rogue hair ties that leave for another dimension when you need them most, dating apps, flat-pack furniture with missing parts. Let’s see … what else?
Dylan:Is that all? My mom’s Sunday texts are beginning to look reasonable.
Julia:Ah yes. Mothers tend to have the last word, don’t they?
Dylan:Not my mother. She has the first word, the last word and every word in between. Speaking of which, I’d better check in. Thanks for the chat, Julia.
Julia:Anytime.
Dylan:Talk soon.
Over the next several days, Dylan found himself reaching for his phone first thing each morning and checking for messages throughout the day. Still, he remained guarded about anything too personal.
Julia was no expert at chitchat, either. Socializing and making small talk required a type of energy she had never had.
During their chats, Dylan learned that Julia had grown up in Atlanta before moving to Savannah for work and that she had a younger brother in California. She told him a little more about that summer she spent in Italy, documenting Renaissance buildings. From him she learned he was an only child, about his Massachusetts childhood, and his passion for restoring old wooden boats.
One evening after work, Dylan sat cross legged on the floor eating leftover pizza. He wondered what it would be like to see the space where Julia lived, to watch her work on her designs, to share a glass of wine. The thought surprised him. He decided to text her.
Dylan:So, where do you hang your hard hat after a long day of brick whispering?Somewhere with good bones would be my guess.
