Sixty-Two ☼ Phan

Six

For a while, we just walked.

It seemed like forever. My lack of experience with excercise was catching up to me, clenching my side as we, still hand-in-hand, climbed over branches deeper into the woods. The singsong bird whistles were becoming less pretty and more annoying the further I heard it.

"How much longer?" I asked.

"It's only been five minutes," he informed me.

"Yes," I groaned. "But how much longer?"

Phil didn't reply. What felt like eternity, but, in truth, was probably only two minutes, passed before he stopped. I leaned down, slipping my fingers from his and holding myself up against my knees, bent over like an old man.

"I really need to work out more," I grunted.

He nudged me, and I looked up.

"We're here."

It was odd, to say the least. Not at all what I expected him to drag me so far for. Although I didn't particularly expect anything specific, this, still, was a stretch of reasoning.

An old building. A house, presumably, though archaic and crumbling at the edges. It was made solely out of brick, side from the door and windows. Window panes fell away, glass dirty but not cracked. Two flower beds sat on either side of the door, overflowing with vinery and weeds. A cracked path broke off just at out feet, tiny blades of grass sprouting in between the individual stones.

"Why did you want to show me this?" I asked.

Phil began walking, and I followed close beside him. He, almost to my surprise, opened the door and gestured me to walk inside. As if he lived there, and this were no more than an ordinary visit. I obliged, stepping up onto the wood flooring and looking around. I heard him come in behind me, closing the door, an old sound echoing off the broken walls as it shut.

For a house that was falling apart, it looked rather well kept on the inside. Floor was clean enough, though footprints dirtied it from what appeared as countless times walking over. There was furniture, minimal but there all the same. A table, wooden, with one chair. A tattered wicker couch that was broken in half and missing its cushions. The remnants of a rug covered the hallway, which I followed. It led into a kitchen, one that seemed to truly tell the house's age. No fridge or stove, and a large china cabinet with a door broken off and all but maybe two glasses entirely shattered. I stepped over the shards that were precariously scattered.

"Where's the bedrooms?"

"There's only one, and it's downstairs. I don't go down there, just because it's really dirty, and the walls look ready to cave in," he told me.

Aside from the original decor, I noticed other personal touches. A stack of cards on the table, empty bags of chips, miscellaneous everyday items that were falling in piles. Books, a latern and flashlight. All a rather fresh gleam to the antiquities.

"Is this where you're at all day?" I wondered.

Phil shrugged. "Most the time. I really like it."

I smiled gently. "I do too."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him smile. This time, I could have sworn it was a little less sad. Nowhere close to the pictures, but all the same not as gloomy. The thought of making him smile like that, so bright and heartfelt, someday made me giddy for some reason. It was strange, as if Phil was a project I was working on, wanting more than ever to get everything right.

"What do you do here?"

"Sit, mainly. I think a lot."

I faced him. "About what?"