Page 54 of Fly's Path

Aren’t they supposed to be loud, crass, rude, mostly drunken men who enjoy bar fights and tattoos?

“You’re staring at me.” He grins.

“Yes, I am.” But that doesn’t last long as the world goes dark.

“I like that about you.”

“What?”

“That you say what you think. No games. Well, not too many games.”

“Life is too short to say something you don’t mean.” The road to the clubhouse is vastly different at night. What was once a cute forest-lined road turned into endless darkness, only brokenby bright headlights, which seem to barely illuminate the path in front of us. “Most women would be second-guessing their decision to go with you right about now.”

Fly chuckles. “My house is only a few minutes away from the clubhouse, but we can turn around if you want.”

“Nah. I want to get to know more about you.” And the quickest way to do that is by finding out what he listens to. The digital display makes it easy to find one of his playlists.

The music that starts pouring out of the sound system would shock me for any other man. “Classical. That’s an interesting choice. Not what I would have picked for you.”

“Oh, really? What were you expecting to hear?”

“Classic rock or maybe some R&B, but you just felt like a classic rock kind of guy. Though I might have asked you to take me back if I heard rap or death metal.”

“You take your music seriously.”

“Not really.” But it seems like I take the men who I kiss very seriously, even when I know none of this is going to be serious. “I think I’m taking us too seriously.” And there I go blurting stupidness out.

“I don’t.”

What did he just say?

In that moment, the scenery subtly changes. What was only darkness and trees suddenly turns into a bright light as a garage door opens.

A very large garage door.

What’s inside makes me turn to the man next to me, questioning who he really is. Because the European sports car and the off-roading vehicle that’s in pristine condition both make sense. But what doesn’t is the beat-up pickup truck, the white mid-sized sedan that has to be at least ten years old, and the minivan that has more dents than my car…and that’s animpressive feat since my car is like thirty years old and been owned by half a dozen people before me.

This man makes no sense.

I should just focus on the half-dozen custom-looking bikes that fit the man who I thought he was, but something tells me it could be fun getting to know the real man.

Fly walks around the SUV and holds a hand out to help me down.

Chivalry isn’t dead.

“What music do you listen to?”

Oh, that’s a loaded question. “Depends. I’m a mood listener. So you’ll find a little bit of everything on my playlists.”

Fly’s reality changes as he opens the door to the house. It was just a plain-looking white door that led into something that’s quite the opposite of plain.

Wow. Did we move across the country in the blink of an eye? Wood, glass, cement, and steel are all blended into one modern space…with the emphasis on glass. It’s like you're standing outside, but completely inside a fish tank, there’s so much glass.

This house wouldn’t work anywhere else but in the middle of nowhere in the woods.

But the part that strikes me even harder is the fact that there aren’t things…Why doesn’t this man have stuff? I mean, everywhere I look is tastefully decorated with just the perfect ‘thing’ to add to the modern simplicity of the space. None of it makes this place feel lived in…like a home.

Why does there have to be a lived-in feel in order for his house to be a home? Fly could simply be a man who lives a minimalistic life that’s clean, orderly, and sterile.