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Week 1
Moving was such a pain in the ass. Especially moving cross-country, by yourself, when you don’t know anyone to bribe, annoy or guilt into helping, except your brother, who’s a dick.
Zach was struggling to get his new mattress off the U-Haul when he realized he really hadn’t thought this endeavor through. He’d come out to LA knowing he’d just purchase a new bed when he got here, since his old one was ready to be pitched. He’d spent the morning shopping around, trying several out and settled on this one. It certainly wasn’t a Tempur-Pedic or anything, but it would do. And hey, he still had the van rental until tonight anyway, he thought he’d just save on the delivery fee. The rest of his furniture was pretty minimalist and thus, lightweight and easy to move by himself, but what he hadn’t counted on was his asshole brother claiming he had an out-of-town job on the week he’d agreed to help him move in. And now Zach had a plastic-wrapped, king-sized mattress hanging halfway off the back of a truck, shortly about to flatten him to the pavement.
“Dude, hang on!” he heard someone call from behind as he grunted under the weight, then streak past, helping him ease the mattress down. His savior took up the opposite end, helping him balance it vertically, and they moved in the only way two people could while carrying a large and cumbersome mattress, awkwardly waddling to the front door of his little bungalow.
“Where are we headed with this?” the guy asked as they entered, and Zach had little choice to follow and direct from his end.
“Down to the right… uh, your left, there’s a hall… yeah. Left again,” he grunted, and together they hauled the mattress in the bedroom, setting it down.
“Here, just a sec,” the guy said, and peeled the plastic down from the quilted cloth, then helped to tilt it down onto the frame and square it up. Zach paused to catch his breath as the guy swooped down to gather the plastic trash.
“Hey, thanks so much,” said Zach, still huffing and puffing, “Dunno what I was thinking.”
“Hey, no problem at all, man,” the guy replied, tugging a work glove off his free hand and tucking it in his armpit to shake with Zach, smiling brightly as he pushed his sunglasses up to the top of his head, “I’m happy to help.”
And religion hit Zach full force, like that mattress to the pavement after all. He’d moved to LA, the City of Lost Angels, and here one beautiful celestial seraphim had descended upon his bedroom. An angel with eyes like the sky and a halo of sun-bleached chestnut, wearing grubby cargo shorts, half-laced work boots, a tight grey t-shirt and a yellow striped vest with a patch declaring, Los Angeles City Sanitation Bureau. “Jesus.”
“Chris,” the guy corrected. “Jesus is my partner.”
“Huh?”
“Jesus,” he repeated, the Spanish pronunciation. “Speaking of which…” he hitched a thumb over his shoulder and pointed to the bedroom door. Zach vaguely became aware of two things: he was still gripping the guy’s (big square strong) hand and there was an annoying horn blaring outside.
“Oh! Sorry,” he bleated, letting go.
The guy smiled, cleared his throat and headed out the way they’d come, Zach following. Wow. Those calves. That ass.
“You just moved in, huh?” Chris asked from the front doorway, gesturing to the boxes. “Where from?”
“Um, yeah. Pittsburgh.”
“Welcome to the neighborhood, Mister…”
“Zach. Quinto,” he blubbered dumbly. “Zachary.”
“Mister Zachery,” Chris grinned widely again, and holy shit, come back to bed and throw me down. “We come every Wednesday.”
“You what?”
“Trash,” Chris said, bright eyes sparkling, “In case you haven’t gotten your welcome flyer yet. This route’s every Wednesday.”
“Right, yeah okay, trash, good, great!” Zach stuttered, as the guy waved and jogged to the obnoxiously turquoise garbage skiff rumbling by the curb. “Bye Chris.”
“Sleep well, Zach,” Chris called, grabbing a hold of the bar on the back of the truck and stepping up onto a small platform, sending a salute as the rig roared to the next house. There, he climbed down, lifted up and tossed the contents of two black garbage bins into the crusher like they were light as a feather, biceps glistening in the sun.
“Fuck me,” Zach muttered.
Week 2
Zach had never unpacked from a move so entirely. That box of books he hadn’t actually read since high school, collections of DVDs and VHS cassettes he didn’t actually own players for anymore, but for whatever reason couldn’t bear parting with, those would’ve stayed in the top of his closet for eternity.
As such, he’d actually gone through all of his old crap, actively searching for shit to donate and throw away. Which he probably should have done before he’d hauled it all across the country, but hey, that was before Chris the Trash Man™ entered his universe.
Where Zach came from, trash men were dour, grumpy guys in full body cover-alls with big beer guts, dead-eyed and silent. They rarely got out of the trucks, equipped with mechanical claws that grabbed each bin and dumped it for them. If they did deign to exit the cab, it was with annoyance and scowls because someone had not sorted properly, or the truck couldn’t reach around a parked car or a snowdrift. And why would they? Garbage collection was a shitty, filthy, disgusting thankless job that few people cared to even think about, much less acknowledge as playing a vital role to modern civilization.
Zach had literally never even thought about it before. What a job to have. You have to go around everyday and pick up the refuse, the dredges, all the shit people threw unceremoniously into a pail and set on the curb to forget about. Things people didn't want to think about or own up to: that pair of underwear you’d worn holes in, a casserole gone so wrong you could neither bring it to a potluck nor stomach it yourself, notes from exes, notes to people you imagined were lovers but weren’t.
On second thought, Zach burned those. Destroy all traces of existence. The casserole too, burnt to a crisp, though not by choice.
Anyway, with the move, along with several orders of take-out and trips to stores to get new stuff, all of which came in boxes or packaging with styrofoam inserts and plastic wraps with which he could fill a hefty bag—he had generated more garbage in the last week than he probably ever had. This was probably not something to be proud of. It was kind of embarrassing, actually. At least until he saw the big turquoise truck making its way around his cul-de-sac from his front window.
Zach had a masterfully crafted plan. He would, as the truck pulled up at his neighbors’ house, gather up the remains of his garbage—a box of those ancient books and several cardboard boxes—and take it all manfully to the curb where his bins were already waiting.
Except they weren’t, he suddenly realized. With all his meticulous planning, he’d forgotten to put trash cans out.
“Shit,” he muttered, grabbing the elderly box of books under one arm and the awkward flattened cardboard in the other to run it out. But sadly he did not have three hands, and trying to drag his bins from the side of the house with the rest balanced on top resulted in exactly the opposite of a suave accidental meeting. Just as the big rig pulled up to his curb with his incandescently hot Trash Man perched on the back corner, Zach stumbled and fell flat on his ass on the lawn. The unbalanced box of books promptly tipped and rained paperbacks neatly on his head.
“Whoopsa-daisy,” that smoky voice chuckled from above him.
“Shit,” Zach groaned, trying to scramble up and gather the mess. “Sorry!”
A warm laugh answered, Chris kneeling beside him to help gather the spilt books. “You’re not tossing these, are you?”
“Uh, yeah,” Zach dragged himself up, “They’re older than dirt, so.”
Chris pushed his sunglasses up from his dazzlingly blue eyes and frowned, a perfect line between his brows. His skin was gorgeously tan, freckly and with the perfect sheen of that working man’s sweat showing off his muscles. His broad hand clutched six paperbacks at a time, reaching for another on the grass. “There’s a used bookshop not far away. They’ll give you credit for some of these, I’ll bet. I hate to throw books away.”
He piled the handful of the books back into the box and grabbed another just as Zach reached for it. His ancient paperback copy of Dancer from the Dance, so beat to hell the cover was missing—not because it was stolen, he’d purposely torn it off so his mom wouldn't notice the shirtless guy posed provocatively on the front cover—pages yellowed and ripped, several dog-eared. He blushed furiously thinking about the late nights he’d spent with it as a teen, gripped in one hand with the other under the bed covers. “I don’t think a used bookstore would take that one.”
“Maybe not this one,” Chris grinned beguilingly, handing it back and catching his lip in his teeth before turning to Zach’s bins, “Did you ever read James Purdy? Narrow Rooms?”
Zach stared as Chris effortlessly lifted the cans of his trash. Biceps bulged and triceps clenched as he picked up first one and then the other, emptying them into the truck. He had the beginnings of sweat spots in each armpit of his t-shirt. He set the cans down on the curb and looked back at him inquiringly. Oh, he had asked a question. “Um, I don’t think so,” he mumbled.
“You should,” Chris said, “It’s a classic. I’m reading The Mysteries of Pittsburgh right now—it’s good too. I’m almost done, I’ll try to remember to bring it for you next week.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Nah, man, I want to,” he insisted, “Share books around, more people will read and learn something new, you know? By the way, you should keep the cardboard. Recycling comes around later today.”
“Oh. Right,” Zach said, still clutching the book. “Are you… do you do that too? Pick up recycling?”
Chris grinned, dropping the shades back to his nose and climbing back up on his little platform. “Nah. But I’ll see you next week. I’ll bring that book.”
“Right, okay, yeah,” he blurted, “Bye Chris.”
“See ya, Zachary,” he saluted.
Week 3
There was a little girl on the corner of the cul-de-sac. She couldn’t have been more than four years old. She waited outside every week for the garbage trucks with her mother, jumping up and down in excitement as they turned into the street. But there’s was the last house on the right, and the little girl would have to wait until the big rig made it all the way around the neighborhood. Zach was roughly in the middle of the circle, poised to observe the whole progression the truck made from his front window. Not that he, uh, did that, or anything. There was no great reason to watch the garbage truck after it had come to his own house.
It took Zach awhile to realize the little girl was disabled, and that the young mother was pretty and seemingly single—nary a man came around except for package deliveries. When Chris stopped at that house, after he’d made the circle all the way around, he’d climb down and pick up their garbage as the mom shifted her feet and tucked her strawberry red hair back behind her ear. Then he’d take his gloves off, kneel down and give the little girl a great big hug. He’d stand on the curb and chat for a few minutes with the pretty young mother. It was far enough away that Zach couldn’t hear any conversation, but close enough that he could see the shift of Chris’ arms, crossed attractively across his chest or lifting to scratch his neck. He could see the flash of that bright, sexy grin, the very same one he gave Zach, shades pushed to the top of his head while the adorable child gamboled around his cargo-clad legs and he’d set a big hand on the top of her bright blonde hair.
Sometimes Jesus would get out of the cab and join them. Jesus was a joyful, round-cheeked guy from Guatemala, Zach had learned today, and he was likable enough, but it was obvious the little girl and the pretty mom only had eyes for one person.
Zach wrestled with a significant amount of guilt, because honestly, what pretty single mom wouldn’t be hopeful, even if he was a Trash Man? And Chris clearly loved to greet this little girl with big strong hugs.
He wondered what it would take to get big strong hugs from the Trash Man when he was not an adorable little girl with a hot mom. One who gave him a plate of something that looked like cookies today. Zach was not much of a baker. He hoped vehemently that neither was Hot Mom. They were probably store-bought, nuked for a few seconds to make them seem fresh-baked. He wondered how many other neighborhoods Chris went around everyday, getting hugs and chatting with hot moms. That didn’t help.
He clutched the novel Chris had handed him moments before, pulling from his back pocket and telling him it had been such a good read, and right up his alley.
Zach ought to be ashamed. He was a Trash Man, he probably smelled like garbage, which should make the idea of hugging him a bit less appealing. It didn’t.
Dammit, he had to up his game.
Week 4
“Do you like coffee?”
“Is water wet?”
“I can… hang on,” Zach said, flying back into his kitchen to pour a mug from his fancy new coffeemaker. He ran back out to see Chris striding along the sidewalk in confusion, the truck inching away, and Zach slowed his step lest he spill all over himself. “Here.”
Chris eyed him a little skeptically, taking the mug he held out. He took a small sip, licking the foam from his lip. “Is that hazelnut?”
Zach brightened, “Yeah! I got this awesome coffeemaker. It makes coffee.” Real slick, Zach, he winced inwardly. “I put just a little sugar.”
“It’s good,” Chris said, holding the mug back out to him.
“No, you can take it with you,” Zach offered. Chris looked at the mug, which declared, I’m the fun aunt! “Hell, you can throw it away, my Aunt Tassy probably left it at my mom’s when I was a kid or something,” he blushed.
“I wouldn’t do that to Aunt Tassy,” Chris feigned a stern look, and took another sip “Thanks. Hey, did you read that book?”
“Yeah!” Zach replied. He hadn’t been able to put it down, in fact. It led him through the coming-of-age tale of a mob boss’ son Art who attended Zach’s own Alma Mater, Carnegie Mellon, in many places on a campus Zach was intimately familiar with. The story led him through the life and friendships Art made, which eventually led to the character realizing he was bisexual. The whole tale was riveting, but Zach couldn’t help but fixate on what this recommendation meant. Had Chris given it to him as a hint? Or simply because he remembered where Zach was from? “It was great, really… really good.”
“Great, yeah!” Chris parroted, his face opening to discuss, before Jesus leaned on the horn from the cab. He sighed, shuffling. “I’d better—”
“Yeah,” Zach said, “Keep the mug.”
Chris nodded, taking another long drink as he climbed up on his perch, holding out Aunt Tassy instead of his customary salute.
Week 5
Zach acquired two thermoses from Bed Bath and Beyond. One was a blue sky covered in a bright sunshine motif, the little suns wearing sunglasses. The other was the bluest metallic blue brushed steel he could find. Okay so, he was a little obvious, maybe.
“Mmm,” Chris groaned after his initial sip. Zach would stock up on that flavor. “Thanks. This thermos is really nice.”
He had dutifully returned Aunt Tassy’s mug, washed and everything.
“I have two,” Zach said quickly, “Just bring that one back next week, and I’ll just switch them out for you.”
Chris grinned, and it crinkled right up to his eyes. If Zach didn’t know any better, he was blushing a bit too. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” Zach stopped him. “You have this… kind of thankless job, you know? I appreciate it. What you do. People don’t see past it. Like. See you.”
Chris studied him, those incredible eyes searching. Zach did his best to steadily hold his gaze. “Thanks, Zach. I appreciate that.”
When he stopped at the house on the end, he still held onto that bright blue thermos, sipping from it as he chatted and hugged the little girl, and left his shades firmly on his face. Take that, Hot Mom.
Week 9
Chris was not the one climbing down from the truck. It was some other guy, who said nothing and gruffly emptied his bins.
“He’s sick, man,” Jesus called from the cab window.
“Is he okay?” Zach asked, his heart pounding. A whole week and no Chris the Trash Man, Zach was startled to realize how much this upset him. He and Chris had, in the last few weeks, or at least the four or five minutes they had—exchanging coffee, books, asking for the best local pizza place and instead getting a recommendation for Chris’ favorite taco stand. The loss of those precious few moments was actually the worst.
“Flu,” Jesus shrugged. “He’s a big woobie baby when he gets a sniffle. Bet he’s all cuddled up in bed. He’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Zach murmured, wondering if there was any way to check up on him. Was there a number on the website? Would that be weird? That would probably hella creepy of him, trying to call up Chris’ boss and find out where he lived to bring him homemade soup. Nobody was supposed to care about their Trash Man that much.
But Zach’s mom’s chicken soup recipe was the best for a bad case of the sniffles.
Week 10
“You were sick!”
Chris looked back at him after tipping his trash into the back of the truck the following Wednesday. He looked a little worse for wear, his nose a bit red and chapped, skin a little pale. He wore jeans today. “Yeah, I was,” he said, coughing a little roughly into his elbow. “Still a little under the weather.”
“I made you soup,” Zach said, thrusting out not just the usual coffee thermos, but a second, short, fat one he’d gone back to Bed Bath and Beyond to buy. He’d slaved over this soup last night, chopping fresh veggies and herbs and making sure it was seasoned and simmered just right, reheating it this morning now that it had had a little time in the fridge to get all married and delicious. “It’s my mom’s recipe—her mom’s, really. I had to needle the secret ingredient out of her, which she’s never told me before now. I owe her big time.”
“Really?” Chris took the soup thermos, twisting off the top to sniff. “Wow, that’s awesome! What’s the secret? I still can’t really smell anything.”
“Not telling,” Zach teased. “You’ll have to guess.” He wondered when seeing his local Trash Man had become the highlight of his week. “I… it’s nice to see you up. Uh, back. On your feet, and working. Or whatever. Better.” Please don’t get sick and miss work ever again.
“Thanks,” Chris expression faltered almost imperceptibly, his smile just a little different. He wiped at his nose with a gloved knuckle and held the thermos up, “It’s… it’s nice to see you too. Thanks for this, Zach.”
Week 12
Chris spent an extra three minutes the Adorable Little Girl and Hot Mom on the corner, after he had accepted Zach’s coffee thermos a little bit more curtly than usual. He had returned the soup thermos the week prior with a big smile, looking healthy and fully recovered.
“Hey man!” Chris had held out his empty and cleaned thermos in exchange for the full one. His eyes had been bright and interested.
Zach had handed over this morning’s thermos. “Ciocattino flavor today. It’s kind of chocolatey?”
Chris’ eyes had studied him carefully, twisting off the top. “Oh, okay.”
“Do you… do you not like chocolate?” Zach fretted.
“No, I do,” Chris had said, looking down at the thermos. He still looked almost disappointed as he took a sip. “Thanks, Zach.”
And with that, he put the top back on, quickly dumped Zach’s trash bins, and jumped up on his platform with a half-assed wave.
And now he was canoodling with Adorable Little Girl propped on his hip, whose Hot Mom gave him what looked like a cupcake with a great big smile.
Zach was at a loss.
Week 13
Zach had flown home to Pittsburgh to take care of his mom for a few days while she recovered from a minor but necessary dental procedure. She hadn’t wanted him to bother, but it was nice to spend a bit of time back at home.
He woke up the second morning finding his mother already up and looking like she felt better today.
“There’s coffee made,” she told him, “It’s not that fancy stuff like you told me about.”
“That’s fine, Mama,” he said.
“Oh shoot, would you do me a favor and put the trash out? They’ll be here any moment!” she fretted, “I forgot.”
“Mama, you’re high on Percocet,” he told her, but went to do it nonetheless. It had always been his chore when he was a boy living here.
Today, he dragged the trash bins out to the curb through a messy coating of slush, bundled up in his coat and kicking at the muddy muck. LA didn’t have snow, and frankly he didn’t miss it. It was only pretty for a little while before it just turned into a big gross mess.
He watched as the big blue—not turquoise—truck roaring down the street, the man scowling out the window in his thick dirty coveralls as he guided the giant claw to grab the bins and drove to the next house without so much as a word.
He turned back to jog inside to the warmth of his mom and his coffee.
Margo sat at the table with her own cup. “So how have you been, dear? I’ve been so worried about this tooth I haven’t even asked. Have you made any friends? Met anyone special?”
Zach stirred sugar into his mug. “I… sort of.”
“Sort of?” His mom knowingly raised her brows.
“Well, not really,” he hedged, thinking back to the sun and palm trees and bright smiles. “Just people I only see in passing.”
Week 14
Zach unscrewed the top of the sunshine thermos to pour a new brew inside. He defaulted to a blend that he knew Chris had enjoyed before, since apparently the chocolatey whatever didn’t go over well. He was just about to pour when the first few drops splashed onto something odd curled inside. Setting it down, he plucked it out with two fingers.
Can we talk? Not about trash, hopefully, said the little strip of notebook paper he had unfolded. On the back, it continued, Sorry if this is weird, you just seem like someone I want to get to know better.
It took him a couple of seconds to wrap his head around. Chris had returned this thermos… four weeks ago? There had been a couple of skips in there, when Chris had been ill, and when Zach had been gone, but somehow, he had not managed to unscrew the top and see a note until this morning.
He thrashed around, looking for the soup canister where he’d stashed it in the cupboard, and feverishly twisted off the top. He’d told Chris to guess the secret ingredient in his mom’s soup. A soup he had dutifully made again for his own mother, so she’d have something warm and easy to eat while recovering from dental surgery.
Ginger, right? Really helped, read the note he found inside, his hands shaking. Chris was right on the money. A small fresh grated knob of it, just to open up the sinuses and soothe a sore throat when someone was sick.
He hadn’t even acknowledged either note, and it was obvious why Chris had been so withdrawn.
And now he didn’t have any idea what to do. So much so, in fact, he froze as he saw the garbage truck pull up at the front window, saw Chris hop down to empty his bins, and then dither for a minute on the curb before jogging up the sidewalk to his front door. He saw the blurry shape of him through the frosted glass, hesitating out on the stoop, ducking down, then standing and dithering a moment more. And then he was leaving, riding his little platform to the next house.
Zach’s heart was throbbing as he stood there dumbly in his kitchen, an empty thermos and a coffee pot and a slip of notebook paper in his hand.
By the time he recovered his brain enough to move, the Trash Man was long gone.
He opened his door, and there on his welcome doormat was the second coffee thermos, metallic blue, since Chris had not been able to return it while Zach had been away. He picked it up and stared out across the neighborhood, wishing he could turn back time.
Taking it back to his kitchen, set it on the counter and placed both hands on either side.
Chances were, since Zachary was a world class idiot with no game, it would be far too much to hope Chris had left more notes. It was just a friendly gesture, Zach bringing the Trash Man coffee every week, returning conversation in kind. Now it was just the same old routine. After all, how many people really saw past the dirty job?
He took a deep breath and finally unscrewed the top.
I’m sorry if I creeped you out, was all this note said.
Week 15
On Wednesday morning, Zach stood outside on the edge of his lawn, nervously clutching a coffee thermos. He was quite early, having put his trash cans on the sunny curb before he’d even showered and spent a pathetic amount of time trying to choose an outfit that was both obviously casual and obviously attractive. After having spent a week trying to figure out how to woo his beautiful wayward Trash Man back to their friendly camaraderie, if not possibly something more.
The butterflies kicked up when he saw the turquoise skiff pull around the corner, even more so as Chris climbed down at each house. That gorgeous chestnut hair glinted in the sunlight, arms tanned and glowing. As he drew closer, to his neighbors’ house, Chris even lifted a hand to wave, having spotted Zach outside. His smile was bright as the rig pulled up and he jumped off the platform, pushing the shades up to meet Zach’s eyes.
He strode to the end of his walk as Chris made quick work of his trash cans, waiting until he’d set both down and turned around.
“Hi,” Chris said, glancing away down the street, “You, uh, you’ve been busy, I guess. I haven’t seen you.”
The apprehension was clear in his his voice, and it gave Zach a little hope. “I was. I went back to Pittsburgh for a bit to help my mom with a surgery.”
Chris frowned in genuine concern, “She okay?”
“Yeah, she’s fine, just a little dental thing,” Zach reassured, “But I’m back now.”
Chris toed at the grass edging and nodded. “Good, that’s good.”
“It was ginger, in the soup,” Zach said, getting Chris’ eyes back on him. “Good guess.” He held out the coffee thermos, his heart pounding.
“Yeah?” Chris smiled, looking to the thermos and taking it in a gloved hand. He frowned as he hefted it, but didn’t untwist the cap. Just as he took a breath to speak again, Jesus tapped on the horn twice, and Chris huffed, laughing. “I guess I’ll see you.”
“Yeah,” Zach nodded, stepping back and pocketing his hands as he watched the thermos in Chris’ hands. “Yeah, talk to you soon.”
Chris studied his face and transferred the thermos from one hand to the other and back, retreating back to his platform.
Zach watched him make his way down the rest of the houses. At the end, he stopped just long enough to give the little girl a hug and her mother a brief wave, but afterwards, he climbed into the cab, with the shining blue thermos still clutched in hand.
With a shaky exhale, Zach dragged his garbage cans back to the side of his house, went inside and poured himself an extra cup of coffee. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and put it back again, settling in to wait for Chris to find his own bold little note. It listed his phone number, and said, Not at all creeped out.
In about an hour, his phone pinged with a text.
Oh my god, Zach. I was afraid I’d made things weird. Want to talk?
With nervous fingers, Zach texted back: want to meet? tonight? i guess you have the advantage of knowing where i live.
:D sure, I’ll come to you. 7?
Can’t wait.
6:52 PM
The door bell rang, and Zach was panicking. The last time Chris was in his house, it was a disaster of boxes and hastily placed furniture. They’d arrived in his bedroom and then Zach had been starring in his own personal intro to a porno. Well, that was kind of where his fantasies had taken it from there in the last few months.
The reality was that after a few extremely brief encounters with the local Trash Man, exchanging books and coffee, things did get weird, and he didn’t think he knew how to make it not weird. What if this wasn’t about what he thought? What if Chris just wanted to start some Trash Man Book Club or something?
He’d set out a couple of his favorite reads just in case, changed his clothes a few times, made coffee, let it get cold because then he wondered if he should go all out and make dinner, and then he hadn’t gone to the grocery store. And the doorbell was ringing a second time, the blur of the person outside shifting his weight on his feet.
Zach finally swallowed his nerves and pulled open the door.
To an angel from on high. Far from the grubby cargos and reflective vest and work gloves look of the morning, now Chris the Trash Man was scrubbed clean, wearing chinos and a short sleeved patterned button-down, and the setting sun made a halo of the locks of hair swept neatly back. Zach gaped dumbly, “Jesus.”
“Is finally not here, keeping me on task,” Chris grinned. “Can I come in?”
“Sorry,” Zach stepped back, letting him by.
Chris looked around his living room appraisingly, “Nice. Looks like you’re all settled in now.”
“Yeah,” Zach breathed, still staring in awe.
“So, um,” Chris looked nervous, bringing his hand from behind his back. “I hope I’m not way off base here.”
Zach gasped and covered it with his hand. It was the shiny blue coffee thermos he’d given his this morning, inside of which was tucked a red rose.
“Because like,” Chris continued, holding it out, “I know this is really kind of weird, and I’m just your Trash Man, but I feel like you see the guy behind it. I’m hoping that maybe you do. I’m babbling, so if you could say something?”
Zach took the thermos and set it aside, so he could step in and pull Chris close, “Oh my god, you smell good,” he whispered into his neck.
Chris laughed, grinning shyly. “Thanks. That’s kind of a big deal for me, you know? It’s a dirty job and I stink, so showering is a thing. Twice, sometimes three times a day—”
Zach touched his finger to those lips. They were soft and plush. “You’re babbling.”
“Sorry, I’m really nervous,” Chris murmured, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, tongue poking out to wet them and brushing Zach’s finger in the process. “You’re like, the hottest guy on my route, so…”
Zach blushed. “The hottest? Even more than Hot Mom on the corner?”
“Oh god, dude,” he winced, “She makes me these gluten free, vegan baked goods that are terrible. Her kid’s adorable, but like, there’s a lot of eggs and cheese and burritos in my life. I’m really sorry but as soon as we drive around the corner, they go right into the crusher.”
“Thank god for that,” Zach said, “I have to kiss you now, okay?”
“Yeah god okay,” Chris breathed and then whimpered into Zach’s mouth, big hand coming up to grip his shoulders, and somewhere in Zach’s head the ridiculous porno script was starting, and he had to squash that because Chris wasn’t that kind of guy, he was pure and soft and—
“So,” Chris murmured against his mouth, those half lidded, bombay blue eyes on fire, “How’s that mattress you bought holding up?”
Fuck it. “Let me show you.”
Okay, so Zach was trash. Absolute trash for his Trash Man.
Week 52
Chris found her on the street on one of his routes. She wouldn’t come to him, but followed the truck for a while, and after lunch, he’d found a rope and offered her some of his taco. It was love at first sight.
They named her Wednesday. For obvious reasons.