Me: Maybe. But you’re part of it, so I’m in.

A minute passes. And then a picture comes through.

It’s a selfie of Elise.

She’s rolling her eyes, her index finger pointing into her mouth.

E: Gross.

My laugh stops everyone mid-scrimmage and I shock them all by ending practice early.

Gabe

I drop down onto a bench, take off my hard hat and swipe a sweaty forearm across my forehead. It’s fall and the weather is cool, but I’ve been hauling my ass all over this building site since eight o’clock this morning, hence the perspiration soaking the front of my Local 401 T-shirt. I open the brown bag in front of me and take out half of a meatball sub, leftover from yesterday, plus a can of Coke, cracking it open.

Both lunch items have vanished within two minutes and I’m still left with fifty-eight minutes of my break. Normally I would catch a nap in the back of my truck or something, but I can’t relax.

Tonight is my date with Elise.

I’m definitely going to fuck it up somehow. I don’t know how yet, but I will.

I’m good at construction. I build. I frame, insulate, do masonry, interpret plans from the architect with ease. Building is my one and only skill. What I know about women is slim to none and I was married to one. Actually, I think I know less about women now that I’ve been married—a fact that has never been more troubling as it is right now. When I’ve got this beautiful, badass chick meeting me tonight. She wouldn’t like me calling her a chick and that only makes me smile more. There is just something about a woman who snuggles with a man one second and tells someone to fuck off in her next breath.

Am I already in love?

Damn. I might be.

With a gusty sigh, I lean back against the concrete pillar behind me, phone in hand. As I’ve done several times today, I pull up the picture of Elise’s ID card and zoom in on her picture. I did embarrassing things while staring at this photo last night—and it’s only from the neck up. I’d barely gotten myself warmed up before I finished all over my stomach, the Mets game playing on the screen of my bedroom television. Didn’t even have time to grab a tissue.

I’ve never had trouble lasting in bed. In fact, with my one and only partner, I had a hard time staying focused at all, my mind consistently drifting to other things. Like food. Or building permits. Eventually I would find the rhythm I needed to finish, but I’m fairly positive it used to take me at least twenty minutes. Masturbating to the thought of Elise? Twenty seconds.

It won’t be like that when and if we have sex. In real life.

It won’t. Right?

Shaking off the concern, I add the photo to her contact and the temptation to text her becomes too much. I haven’t sent a personal text to anyone in weeks. Only work ones. The last time I texted anything personal was to my brother, reminding him not to park with his tires on my lawn. He responded with a picture of his middle finger and continued to do it anyway. Maybe it’s just something I have to learn to live with. How many times in my life have I resigned myself to being inconvenienced or overlooked?