Lincoln mowed the lawn twice.
The second pass wasn’t necessary, which was exactly why he did it. Anyone could mow a lawn once. Once was maintenance, probably responsibility and what people did when they wanted the neighbors to think they had their life together.
Twice was vanity. It was also how you got the stripes.
Standing on the porch with a glass of iced tea in one hand, Lincoln admired the alternating bands of green stretching all the way to the road. The red and white geraniums along the front path appeared healthy enough to feature in a gardening magazine, while the yellow lilies had begun opening during the week, adding splashes of color that almost came across as deliberate.
He’d edged every garden bed the previous afternoon. Trimmed every hedge. He’d even pressure washed the porch, and swept the driveway, which was ridiculous because nobody had ever looked at a driveway and thought, My God, look how clean that concrete is.
Still, it looked good. The house itself did. Walking down his porch steps, he scanned the property and felt quietly pleased with himself.
Lincoln checked his watch, then turned to the road, ears sharp, eyes scanning left and right.
A blue jay landed near the mailbox and stared at him.
“I know,” Lincoln told it.
The bird tilted its head.
“Don’t start.”
The bird flew away, apparently unwilling to be involved in whatever this was.
Moments later, he heard the motorbike. A small 125cc perfectly capable of transporting the mailman up and down several streets, but probably not enough to get involved in a high-speed chase.
Lincoln moved along the path, noticing a stray weed and quickly pulling it out. He threw it to the street as he reached the mailbox.
The mailman slowed his bike, dropped something through the letterbox next door, then made his way to Lincoln’s wooden mailbox, in the shape of a small cabin.
He wore an open-faced helmet, green eyes clocking Lincoln as he pulled up alongside his mailbox. But then he killed the engine, and stepped down to kick the stand down, and pulled his helmet off.
Lincoln stepped back, eyebrows drawing together and hand going to his chin to stroke it.
“Hey Stellan, everything okay?”
Stellan nodded, but he didn’t look okay. Fanning himself with a bunch of envelopes for a moment.
“Sorry Lincoln, too hot today. Just needed to stop for a few minutes.”
Lincoln nodded, and watched Stellan. If the boy next door dressed like a lumberjack, you got Stellan.
Lincoln looked to the house, then back at Stellan. “Do you want a drink?”
Stellan stared, then nodded, looking grateful. “Oh, Lincoln, that would be amazing.”
Lincoln started to the house, thinking he was going in to get a drink for Stellan. But when he reached his door, he realized Stellan was right behind him, motorbike on the path outside by his mailbox.
Lincoln held the door open, and let Stellan grab it and follow him.
In the kitchen, he grabbed his special brewed tea, held it up, then walked to the freezer for ice.
Stellan nodded. “Is that tea? Yes please.”
Lincoln dropped the ice into a glass, poured the tea, then handed it to Stellan, before leaning against the smoked marble counter to watch him.
Stellan had a light beard that belonged on a man splitting timber in the mountains rather than sorting envelopes.
But his clothes were soaked with sweat. Grey shorts with patches on the back where sweat had pooled while he rode, and all down the front and centre of his t-shirt.
Stellan drank nearly all of it, lowering the glass while he caught his breath. When he looked up, he cocked his head a little, watching Lincoln a little closely.
“The tea is nice. You have a nice house, just like the garden,” Stellan said, smiling.
Lincoln nodded and attempted a smile, but Stellan was still watching him. It wasn’t a casual one either. His eyes had settled there with the same concentration he used when sorting through letters at the mailbox. Lincoln suddenly became aware that he’d spent the last ten minutes staring at a sweaty mailman in his kitchen and had probably not blinked enough.
He moved his hand down and stifled the unsettling boner that arrived.
Stellan’s eyes drew down and watched him do it.
“Am I bothering you?”
Lincoln shook his head and turned to the side, his face flushing, the occasional grey in his thinning hair catching the light streaming through the window.
“No, just the heat. Haven’t had many visitors,” Lincoln said.
Stellan’s broad shoulders filled out the postal uniform in ways that felt almost unfair.
Stellan grinned, but it was his eyes that Lincoln noticed. Outside they’d looked green. In the kitchen light they seemed brighter somehow, the sort of eyes that made a man forget what he’d been about to say.
Stellan put the glass down, then walked over and stood right in front of Lincoln. But Lincoln was already backed up to his counter, and couldn’t move away.
Stellan was too close. Suddenly the kitchen felt tiny.
“You know what I think about sometimes when I’m riding around, dropping letters off, watching people obsess over their gardens?”
Lincoln stared, wishing Stellan would step back.
He simply shook his head.
