on a Saturday morning, he painted the windows and sang Fade into You

“Mom… come here,” my daughter whispered from her bedroom down the hall.

“The man painting the windows is singing Mazzy Star.”

My daughter motioned with arched eyebrows and a finger over her lips as I followed her into her bedroom where the drapes were drawn.

It was eight something am on a Saturday morning. The fourth Saturday in a series of home improvement weekends — organized by my landlord — with men in and out of our backyard saying very few things to me as they came and went.

I never know what to say to the men who come and work on the house. I never hire them myself and half the time, don’t know what it is they’re doing here and although I always offer “something to drink?” it is almost always declined.

It’s as if there’s a hard boundary between the men and me. Like I should pretend not to see them taking their lunch in the front lawn.

Which is why I hid behind the wall to listen — quietly watching the silhouetted man behind the curtain, arms extended toward the roof.

“I wanna hold the hand inside you/I wanna take the breath that’s true.”