If- Nina G. Jones Page 0,18

He made people feel like home. I wasn’t a wallflower, but Jordan engulfed people with his warm aura. Jordan had a way of getting people to fall into his arms. And in my interactions so far with Ash, I felt I actually pushed too hard in my efforts to welcome him. I felt like I sometimes put him on the defensive. You know, with him calling me stupid and ignoring me on the street and all.

Minutes later, Trevor was guiding the other two as they maneuvered Jordan’s table across the short distance between our apartments. I had pushed what few furnishings I had to the perimeter, making an open space for the table. By the time they were carrying in chairs, Ash’s posture seemed more relaxed, and I could hear Jordan telling him about Trevor’s horny Chihuahua that he forbid from coming to Thanksgiving since it would spend the entire night humping our ankles.

BIRD

“So, Ash, are you originally from LA?” Jordan asked.

“San Diego. My dad was stationed there, but my family moved to Pasadena a few years ago.”

It was weird, hearing about his background. He had a family, one that didn’t live too far away, and yet most of the time he was on the street. Usually at dinners, people ask about family, jobs, hobbies. You try to create a person’s story based on these nuggets of information. But something happened between growing up in San Diego in a military family and living on the street alone here in LA. And whatever it was, it wasn’t dinner conversation.

“Bird mentioned you’re all transplants?”

“Who isn’t in this city?” Trevor chimed in, uncorking some wine. He poured me some, then Jordan. He tilted the bottle in Ash’s direction as an offering. “No, thank you,” was all he said.

“Yeah, I’m from Madison, Wisconsin. Jordan is from Boston. Trevor is from San Francisco.”

“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” Trevor asked. Trevor was the oldest of the bunch at twenty-seven.

“Twenty-one.” We’re the same age.

“How’s the wound?” Jordan asked as his eyes widened with realization. “Oh my god, I just realized I had you lifting this heavy-ass table! I am so sorry!”

“No. No, it’s fine. It’s healing well. Moving the table was not an issue.”

“Jordan is a terrible host. You get here and he immediately puts you to work,” I chided.

Ash looked at me and half-smiled. That was a rare moment for this dinner. I looked over when he was looking at Jordan or Trevor and he did the same to me, but our eyes rarely met. I wanted nothing more than to ask him a thousand questions, but for some reason I found myself desperately trying to play it cool at the table.

It didn’t take long before we were all stuffed. Jordan proclaimed that we would play Cards Against Humanity, but first, he had to scour his messy apartment to find the decks. He told Trevor he would need his help. Jordan came over and whispered in my ear as I brought my plate to the sink. “You’re okay for me to go look for the cards, right?”

“Of course. You are literally on the other side of the hallway. I’m fine here,” I whispered back.

Then it was just the two of us.

I started collecting the plates and loading them into the sink. Without being asked, Ash walked over to the sink, unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves, and started scraping the plates.

“You don’t have to do that. You’re a guest.”

“Please, let me thank you,” he said, throwing my words at me.

“Okay, well you can scrape and pass the plates and I’ll scrub.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

When he passed the first plate to me, I observed his hands. “Your hands are clean.”

He looked at me strangely, as if he was wondering if he should be offended.

“I mean, when I last saw you, it looked like you were using spray paint.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He seemed surprised by the observation.

“Do you do graffiti?”

“Sort of. I don’t vandalize. I find big boxes, flatten them and use them as a canvas. It’s a newer medium to me. Only been using it the past year or so.”

“Newer medium? What other media do you use?”

“All kinds. Watercolor, acrylic, oil. I draw as well, charcoal and pastels. Many times I combine. But paint and canvas are expensive. I don’t really do much of anything these days anyway. I was trying with the spray paint, but it’s better I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I lost my vision.”

“What?”

“Artistic, not the eyes.”

“Oh.” As an artist myself I felt