My name is Rebecca and I am a big woman. I am proud of who I am and happy. But that wasn't always the case.
I'd married at twenty-two and divorced at thirty-three and dated occasionally since then. However there hadn't been much sex. My husband had been a good man but not a good lover. The sex had been disappointing. He blamed me, I blamed him, then started wondering if it really was me, before deciding it truly sucked because we didn't care anymore. After the divorce I got laid once but that too was a let down. I avoided sex for the next year and a half, only masturbating. But that was unsatisfying. Yes, I had orgasms, but they were brief and fleeting... and required more and more effort. I tried doing without but that drove me crazy. My girlfriends all had good sex lives and we talked a lot about my issues, usually killing a bottle of wine in the process. And no, I didn't have any sexual interest in them, nor they in me.
I focused instead on my career and applied for a position in another state and got it. I moved first into an apartment for a couple of years then decided to buy a house. After searching patiently, I found the right one in a nice neighborhood. The deal was closed and I moved in before Christmas. I didn't get to meet my neighbors really until spring. I was clearing the area which was to be my front flower bed when the couple east of me came out. After introductions, they were Tom and Janet, we chatted about the neighborhood and our backgrounds a little. I liked them. Tom went off to work in his backyard leaving Janet and I alone. Eventually she got around to dishing on all our neighbors.
"Mary and Steve across the street there are both heavy drinkers and often have lots of people over for parties and cookouts. It's weird, they have no kids and both are in their forties... Next door to them in the grey brick house are Bob and... uh Karen, I think... Anyway, she's new, his second wife. At least I think they're married. He divorce Shelly a couple of years ago and brought the new woman in. She's blonde, younger than him and has a perfect figure. I hate her for it. And that house on the corner, that's Tonya, though I think Tonya used to be Tony. She's a strange one..."
And she prattled on and on. I tried my best to smile and nod occasionally. Finally I posed a question.
"Who is my neighbor on the west side?"
"Oh, him? That's Mr. Preston. Poor man, widower twice over. A gentle soul but quiet. Keeps to himself, no family that I know of, at least no one ever comes to visit. I think he's a veteran, always flies his flag on holidays and such. He is a character though, likes to wear kilts. You know, the modern utility kilts? He has fancy ones too but always wears the utility kilts when doing yard work. He has the legs for it too! I've tried to get Tom to buy one but he refuses. That's okay, Tom's legs are too skinny."
A week or so later I did see Mr. Preston out working in his yard. And sure enough he was wearing an olive drab canvas kilt, tan boots and a red T-shirt. He was tall, probably 6'3" and well built. His hair was close cropped and seemed either red or blond. He had a nice red beard that looked full and lush but not too long. But by the time I decided to go meet him, he'd gone inside.
The next weekend was rainy. Two weeks after that we finally had more sun and favorable temps forecast. I went and bought my plants, garden soil, and mulch. I had unloaded my plants and was struggling with the 40 pound bags of garden soil when Mr. Preston came out. He paused, looked around, shook his head and came over.
"Here, let me help you with that." he said and unloaded my SUV.
"Thank you!" I replied smiling. "They loaded it for me but I didn't realize the bags were so heavy. My name's Rebecca." I said holding out my hand.
"James Preston." he answered and shook my hand.
I gazed up and saw green eyes and a nice smile. His beard and mustache were indeed red but also streaked with gray as was the hair at his temples. His face was pleasant but creased. Somehow I felt he had endured much sadness and stress. Suddenly I feared he would turn and walk away, I needed something to say.
"I like your kilt." I blurted out.
"Thanks." he replied.
"It shows off your legs... Uh, I mean you have the legs for it... oh damn..." I blushed.
He stopped and smiled. "Again, thank you."
I leaned on the fender of my car. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that."
He leaned on the fender next to me. "Did you mean it?"
"Yes, but..."
"Then you said it because you meant it. So what? That's what's so fuckin wrong these days. I can't compliment a woman for looking good without her gettin' offended. I can get away with holdin' the door for her but only because I hold it for everyone. Folks are just too easily offended. What happened to old fashioned courtesy and conversation? Now everything you say becomes an argument."
"Oh tell me about it! I work in PR, everything we write has to be triple checked to make sure we don't offend somebody. I like writing and matching images to words and taking concepts and ideas then turning them into feelings. Really communicating... But some days are a struggle. 'You can't say that! ' has become the phrase I hate most."
He chuckled. "Yeah. So how about this, I don't know you, you don't know me. Let's agree to talk straight forward without getting our panties in a wad over what someone said."
"You have a deal, Mr. Preston."
