August Comes Over for Brunch

and then...who knows?

You wake up a bit later than you did yesterday. The air from the open window seems sweeter, cooler. You don’t mind. You can almost drink it, this air, as if it were a harbor tea brewed from grassy fruits and salt-sprayed flowers. You want to sit here all morning and do nothing but drink the air.

But you remember that August is coming over today. For brunch, and then…who knows? You didn’t plan anything. After entertaining June and July you’re out of novel ideas of how to spend the time.

In the kitchen you discover that you are fresh out of eggs which is unfortunate since you had planned to make a frittata. As you stand there, calculating whether you have enough time to go out and get more eggs, you hear a soft knock (two beats) on the front door. Didn’t you tell August to just come in when he arrived?

You did, but he is too well-mannered, too concerned (he tells you later) that he might surprise or inconvenience you before you are ready to welcome him. You assure him then that he could not possibly inconvenience you. You remember his visits from when you were a child quite fondly. You feel at home, at peace with August. Honestly, if he could stay all year, there would be nothing to worry or complain about. Ever again.

August comes inside. He is dashing in his casual yet elevated steel blue sweatshirt, sleeves sewn with a delicate edge that end at mid-bicep. He looks fit and clean, as if he just emerged from a morning workout in the pool. He passes through the foyer, heads to the kitchen, and puts a basket on the counter.

‘Do you mind if I close the shades?’ he asks?

Of course you don’t. His manner is easy and accommodating, confident but not overbearing.

As he looks through the window, his eyes wince just slightly as the the direct sunlight meets them. He pulls the cord down, releasing the shade a quarter of its full drawn length, and turns around to look back at you. What a color of eye! A green-yellow-amber-color; subtle but not without movement.

‘That’s better,’ August says, smiling. His smile is crooked but also…perfectly shaped.

You tell him you can’t make the frittata you had wanted to, but perhaps some yoghurt?

‘Delightful,’ he replies. His voice is steady and low. Every time he says something, you feel more and more relaxed.

“I know,” you begin, “I’ll make parfaits.”

He nods, a serene, affirmative nod, and sits down at the kitchen bar to keep you company. You open the refrigerator door, looking…looking…looking.

“Damn, I’m out of cherries!”

August laughs, and says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it, ‘No doubt you are.’

Apparently, your reputation precedes you.

‘I took the liberty to bring you some berries,’ he says, opening the basket on the counter.

As you construct the parfaits, generously including the bounty of blueberries and blackberries your guest has brought, you realize you haven’t engaged him in any conversation. You turn around to start, but the tranquility of his gaze as he looks out the window leads you to reconsider. And anyway, the parfaits are ready.

You make a motion to set the dining room table, but August stands up, gently takes your elbow (as if leading you to a ballroom floor) and says, ‘Al fresco.’ And so you dine outside.

That afternoon, you ask August what he’d like to do while he’s visiting. He questions the need to plan anything specific. As long as you’re not bored, you say to him. The way he looks at you—with all his innocent puzzlement—almost as if you had spoken to him in a language he does not know, leads you to the conclusion that August is never, under any circumstances, bored. And as little as the two of you have been doing together, you have to admit to yourself that you’re not the slightest bit bored either.

He stays a while. All the while you wake up later, grateful for the slightly damper air, the less intense lamplight of the sun, the pianissimo calls of the crossbills and nuthatches. You mention to August that you miss the barn swallows, though you can’t believe you are saying this. He nods. ‘You’ll see them again,’ he says.

You hope he is right.

While there, August never requests any particular activity. You wonder what he does all day. How is he keeping himself engaged? It takes a while, but eventually you stop worrying, stop concerning yourself with this fictional ennui, the one you want to insist must exist because you forgot that there are days when it’s more than enough to watch the heavy branches sway in the breeze; how amazing it is when the most significant interaction of your afternoon is feeling the wind cross gently over your knees.

You’re so Zenned out that it takes you a little longer to notice what he’s been up to, what he’s brought over besides those plump berries. Finally, you see them: the dragonflies, those wispy, muscular helicopters recently emerged from the water to become exquisite flyers and masterful hunters of the air; the squirrels, suddenly hell-bent on stashing an inordinate amount of seeds, leaving the remnants of cones everywhere for everyone else’s sweeping; the leaves, curling slightly, signaling their first unselfish gesture of love toward their one and only tree; the moon, not only silver now, but ambered just around the edges— fuller, heavier and even more graceful than before.

You look over at August, sitting in the chaise across from you. You don’t say anything. You just smile at him. He smiles back.

Finally, he says, ‘You know, if you want, we can take my kite out and fly it. I’m actually pretty good at flying kites.’

You’re certain that he is, and it is a good day for it, with the afternoon wind coming in. Then again, it’s a good day for anything, and the perfect day to not want for anything at all.

Ferry Wave Trail. 08.07.24

Enjoy the rest of your summer, and as always, thank you for reading.

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