Dirty Fingernails

Dirty, grimy fingernails. That’s how I  knew I was into you. That’s how I knew you were someone for me. Sure, we had moments prior. Mostly me admiring you from afar. Mostly me mesmerized by those impossibly white teeth, behind an impossibly addictive smile, beaming invitations to my imagination, impossible to ignore. Mostly me hypnotized by that delicious laugh surrounding me in an aroma I'd yet to swoon under. Mostly me enthralled with that little lilting step that glided you down hallways with friends always in tow. You were rich with friends, and I wanted in. But it was those dirty, grimy fingernails, stained green by fresh, cut grass on a cloudy, stupid-hot day, that did me in. Who knew chopping thin green shards off at the head with a maniacal, twirling blade could draw one in so helplessly pure.

I fell for those fingers while kneeling down together, side by side, heads hovering in shared space over your mower gone dead, uncooperative in any way other than to puff clouds of white smoke from a carburetor spoiled of gas. Those short, funny fingers, dirty but pristine, tanned to perfection with summer’s love. I wanted those fingers locked in my own, sunken tight against my ugly knuckles, resting in my palm, transferring warmth, melting new shapes. I wanted one fist forged. One force. One reason. I wanted those fingers passing circles in my hair. Winding paths down the length of my jaw. I wanted the mystery those fingers possessed. 

Why you invited me to mow, I may never know. No girl had done so before. None has since. Maybe you were desperate, and I was available. Maybe you were as curious of me as I you. Maybe you sensed I was prime for devotion. Ripe for conviction. Whatever the reason, I didn’t care. Who was I to refuse an afternoon of mauling grass with you? Who was I to deny hours together, carving symmetrically perfect lines in God's lawn, drenched in toil's sweat? Who was I to pass on long drags of water from the same blue-and-white jug, fighting for breaths of the same air too dense to swallow?

We cut perfect rows. We made perfect turns. We dodged trees, bushes, and bees. We paced ourselves but left nothing undone. In the end, I wanted to cut more. I wanted to refill the gas tanks. Empty more bags. Sneak glances at your brown legs, flowing upward from white tennis shoes faded all shades of green. I wanted to forever load mowers on that rickety wood trailer, hitched by chain and hope to the silver Camaro you called a friend. I wanted forever to flip those Police cassettes while sharing the highway, singing about dinosaurs and their footsteps, kings of pain, and synchronicity. I wanted to never detach my sweaty thighs stuck on that vinyl seat. Never think once of wearing a seat belt or laughing too long or too loud. Volume up. Inhibitions down. Mowers rattling in rhythm. Dirty, grimy fingers wrapped around the only steering wheel I've ever envied.

I wonder where those fingers are now. What roads they've steered down. Do they still try to fix sour mowers? Do they still press Play for The Police? Do they still lift jugs to swallow drinks? Is someone else folding those fingers into his, locking them tight, squeezing them full, knowing them like I used to? Do you still cut grass?