Disaster withwith mymy Dad’s Friend

I didn’t like him like that.

Until I did.

It was like being hit by a car. Sudden, when you’re least expecting it, and for no particular reason.

My dad’s friend, for one, was more than twice my age and just beginning to sprout grey hair. He was a postman and delivered to our house most weekdays because my dad always got so much mail. That’s how they became friends. “I might as well bloody live at this place,” he said one overcast day when delivering another parcel to the house. As a carpenter, dad required a lot of parts, and they were cheaper online. “You’ll have to get past the Mrs first,” was his response. Queue horrendous laughter. After that, the rest was history.

I think it was because all men my age were arseholes. Men. Pfft. Wouldn’t exactly call playing around with a woman’s feelings, being invited to their place on the first date so they can stick it in as quick as possible, very masculine.

Boys were those in their twenties.

Men were in their fifties.

And dear god, did Paul look good for his age.

Hair black but greying at the roots, stubble peppered around his defined cheekbones and a body like I don’t know what, he was very clearly attractive. I put him down as that the first time I answered the door to collect a parcel. You can find somebody attractive without fancying them, and that was a quote I always prided myself on saying. I believed strongly in it too, but then I started falling more head over heels for him one knock at a time.

It got bad. Really bad. He used to rock up anywhere from 2 PM – 4 PM, so I’d straighten my hair. If dad was in to answer the door, I’d walk past in tight leggings without saying anything, or decide to nip to the shop so I’d pass him on the porch.

“Hiya, Kira,” he’d say, that lovely smile planted across his face. He liked to smile. With dad he laughed, but with me he smiled. His eyes were dangerous. Sometimes I looked into them for so long that I felt dad’s gaze linger, but then Paul would crack some joke and the two would burst into laughter.

When dad ordered something for work, I’d ask what date it’d be delivered so I could prepare my outfit and make sure my favourite pair of black leggings were washed.

He knocked on the door when mum and dad were both out working, so the perks of working from home meant I could still answer.

It just meant exiting my meeting abruptly so I could see Paul.

“Paul.” I opened the door with a smile, eyes licked black by mascara. I’d curled them too. Started using this eyelash serum a couple weeks back to enhance them even more. The black leggings were on, of course, and I pressed a hand into my waist to cinch it.

“Hiya, Kira.” He looked past me. “Your dad in?”

“Nope, just me.”

“How’s it going with the new job? Your dad was telling me about it.”

“It’s good,” I answered. “I sit down, answer a couple calls and get paid. A job’s a job.”

“Exactly.”

A silence grew between us, one I wasn’t quite sure how to react to. Instinct pushed me to thank him for the delivery and close the door, but that’d have me wallowing in disappointment all day. The black leggings were on. The push up sports bra. I washed my hair last night because I knew he’d be coming round with a parcel.

But what else was there to say?

“I guess I’ll see you -“

“Don’t go!” I shouted, perhaps a little too loud considering both of my neighbours were in. “I mean… ” I dug myself into an even deeper hole and stalled him with even more unnecessary words, “I mean. You only just got here.” My eyes travelled to the ground, and my mouth kept spewing words. “Do you want to come inside for a drink? Looks like you’ve been out in it all day. How many parcels have you got left to deliver?”

Paul looked past me. “Is your dad in?”

“No.”