As he traipsed in the door of my unfurnished, one bedroom, peach colored apartment, his black shoes tracked mud all along my clean, vinyl kitchen floors.
Dressed appropriately for a gas technician: clad in worn tattered, light washed workers jeans, sporting assorted condiment stains, a gray T-shirt looking as though it had been through a number of washes that equaled the span of his lifetime, and all black tennis shoes, he carried a staged and insincere, pompous attitude with him that almost matched the smell of gas that was now overwhelming my kitchen.
His one job was to turn the pilot light on for my 35 year old, gas stove that I just unwillingly adopted. His job was not to flirt disgustingly and yap on for 10 minutes about the ho-hum details of his day.
"I've been doing this for a while now. You just sit nice and pretty little lady and watch me do my job. Don't worry, the gas smell will leave the air soon."
Yeah, aside from the gas, there's some hot air blowin' in here too.
I had my doubts immediately, but with a smile of missing front teeth and a hand gesture that resembled a gun, showcasing his dirt lined fingernails, I assumed he may have known what he was doing.
He hunkered down to the floor in front of the oven and lit a match with one crisp swipe. First, he would light the stove.
As his worn and grubby hands began lighting a second match to now light the oven pilot light, like a flash of lightening, once the match had lit, a billowing cushion of fire came swooshing out of the oven and extended a few inches out of it's perimeter, singeing quickly, but efficiently the hairs off of his ashy arm.
Whoa.
He muffled a light yelp and then with a hick-like chuckle that bubbled in the back of his throat, he widened his eyes to blink and process what had just happened.
I knew that smell of gas meant trouble.
His lips began to curl upward, back into that toothless grin that sent shivers up my spine.
This time, however, the grin wasn't backed with so much smug.
No comments:
Post a Comment