Two Nude Night Owls

by Adam Brannigan

Its past midnight, and I’m sitting at my fire pit, burning old letters from old girlfriends. Old photos. Old birthday cards. Trinkets and whatever. It’s time to let go. I’m getting older. Which means I’m dying.

The fat man next door is swimming nude again. He also stays up late. Night owls. I can see into his yard, he can see into mine. We’ve never discussed a fence or planted a screen of shrubs, trees, whatever. We don’t even talk. He goes for a nude swim almost every night in summer. He waves, I wave back and that’s it. I probably shouldn’t. I used to be worried that he might see it as an invitation and wander over in the nude to have a chat just because I wave. But he never has wandered over, probably never will. Not sure why, but that makes me sad.

It might be against the law to be nude in your own pool or whatever, but I haven’t bothered to check. I don’t call the police because he doesn’t seem to mind when the smoke of my fire pit blows across the waters of his pool while he’s swimming in the light from blue LED’s. I guess you could say we have an understanding.

But you know, if he waved me over and invited me to swim with him, I would join him. I’d take off my clothes and jump in. We’d talk. Learn each other’s names. Do laps and somersaults like we were kids, not fat, not bitter, not probably dying or whatever. Just two nude night-owls.

In that possible future I’d think I’d probably never had a friend like him, ever. I’d be right, you know.

About the Author