As I entered Dwayne’s bungalow I was juggling my laptop in its smart, gray wool case, a cup of black coffee from the Coffee Nook, the white bag containing our lunch and a copy of the Lake Chinook Review.  I dropped everything in a heap on Dwayne’s kitchen counter.  Dwayne, as ever, was on his back dock.  He heard me arrive and from where he was stretched out on his longue, he half-turned his head in greeting.  I could see his profile in front of the green waters of Lakewood Bay.  It arrested me for a moment, as the sky had darkened in that eerie way that foretells of a thunderstorm, something that rarely happens in Oregon.  I looked through the window at the gray-green sky just as a shot of lightning sizzled across it, leaving a bright after-image against my retina.  Dwayne picked up his binoculars and scanned the heavens.  It was November and unseasonably warm.  As I off-loaded my items, thunder rumbled and then a horrendous blast of rain poured down.  Loud rain.  I looked up sharply.  Hail, actually.

I squeezed through the twelve-inch opening B all that Dwayne’s sliding glass door allows as his desk is shoved up against it B and rushed outside to the dock.  Dwayne was struggling up from his chair.  I grabbed his arm and together we managed to knock over his small side table as we squeezed back through the door to safety.  In those few seconds we both got soaked to the skin.  After that we stood just inside and stared at the black sky and silvery, bouncing hail.

I felt the warmth of Dwayne’s skin through the damp.  I could smell him.  Something faintly citrusy today that spoke of last summer.  I’ve never been one of those women who wants to >drink in a man’ but I felt that desire now so strongly I could scarcely think.  It took serious willpower to move away from him.

Abruptly the hail stopped.

"Cool," Dwayne said thoughtfully, brushing at his shoulders.  Bright drops of water melted into the light blue cotton before my eyes.

I said, "Lunch is on the counter."

"Standishes?"

"This is from that new gourmet catering shop on B Street."

Hope died in his face.  "Tell me there’s nothing with raisins."

"There’s nothing with raisins."

Beets, though.  I knew better than to mention them as I opened the white bags and pulled out clear, plastic containers of dishes that had made my mouth water as I stood in front of the counter.  Dwayne eyed the Szechuan noodles suspiciously and actually sniffed the container of chicken, arugula, corn and rice.  The purple red beets swimming in their own juice he studiously avoided.  I didn’t blame him.  I’d thrown them in mainly for the shock value.  I don’t mind a beet but their tendency to dye clothing with one ill-placed drop kind of puts me off.

"I suffered a moment of worry about my health."

Dwayne grunted as he swept some plates and silverware from his drawers.  He moved with surprising grace on his crutches, dishing up heaping helpings onto two plates.  He stuck a serving spoon in the beets but didn’t partake.  I felt duty-bound to have some and left a spray of magenta beet juice in a semi-circle on Dwayne’s counter.  I found a paper towel and swiped it up.  I didn’t tell him about the drops that landed on his dish towel.  I was pretty sure no amount of washing was going to get those suckers out.  He gestured at me to ask if I wanted something to drink but I lifted my Coffee Nook cup in response.

I sank onto his couch, which doubles as my work station, and Dwayne perched on one of his kitchen stools.  He’s transformed his jeans to accommodate his cast, in effect making one pant leg only about twelve inches long.  His cast takes over from there and it has various writings on it.  I wondered about the sweet little red heart with initials