Revised Piece- change tenses
The Warning Signs Have All Been Bright
He first saw her in the vegetable aisle, standing by the avocados. He stood next to her, sorting through the lemons, holding them carefully in his hand and feeling the weight.
Her hands were among the avocados; he was drawn to the pale among the green. She wore a ring his sister used to wear all the time, a puzzle ring, 6 bands all intertwining.
He said, “I guess you like to put things back together, huh?”
She smiled at him, self-consciously. She had a softness to her that would probably fade in time; her beauty was maybe the product of youth and too many days spent in the sun, but he liked the faint flush of her cheeks, the unadorned look of her.
“Actually, I like taking them apart more,” she said.
Before he could respond, she was called away by a small boy. She withdrew her hands from the avocado bin and said, “Have a good day.”
“Yeah,” he said. He did not turn to watch her go.
He was in town taking care of his sister, who was dying. He watched the slow and inexorable eating away of the body that used to rock him to sleep—watched it, and found that he had nothing to say.
He tried to be helpful. He cooked her meals, and sat in the bathroom with her when she was racked with nausea and clinging to the toilet bowl.
Some mornings, she said, “You don’t have to be here for this.”
He never answered her. The answer would have been yes, I do, but sometimes he didn’t even have the strength to say that.
He went swimming in the afternoons, when his sister was sleeping. He liked to lower himself into the pool. He liked the feeling of being weightless.
A week after the meeting of avocados and lemons, he saw her at the pool.
He was submerged. He had been swimming laps but was clinging to the edge of the pool, his palms against the hot cement and the rest of him immersed in cool water. He had let himself slide under the surface; he had opened his eyes.
She was hazy above him in her red lifeguard’s suit. Her outlines were smears of color through the water.
He surfaced. She ws smiling at him, a new smile, a smile that curled inside him.
“It’s free swim,” she said. “We have to take down your lane. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said, with a shrug. “I was done anyways.”
She backed up so he could haul himself out. He stood in front of her, dripping. It was hot but cloudy, a steamy day.
“What did you need lemons for?” she asked.
It was a strange question, an intimate question. She didn’t speak to him like she was a stranger.
“Lemonade,” he said.
It wasn’t exactly true. He squeezed fresh lemons for his sister’s tea, in the morning, every morning, before she woke up. It was the only thing she could really stomach, and he liked using the juicer, he liked the squeezing.
“I’m Nate,” he said. He hesitated, then held out his hand. He was aware of the sweat gathering in his hairline, of the chlorine smell coming off him in waves.
She tilted her head. “Julie,” she said. She took his hand.
He was almost 29. He felt his age mostly in the evenings, when he sat with his sister and watched TV. He was almost 29 and he had done nothing in his life.
“You’re just taking care of me to avoid having to get a job,” his sister said one night, as they watched America’s Next Top Model. Her feet were in his lap. He massaged them, feeling the bones of her ankles, the dryness of her heels.
“You’re absolutely right,” he deadpanned. He was appalled by the sharpness of her toenails, considering finding some nail clippers.
“You should be a hospice nurse,” she said. “You seem to like watching people die.”
She laughed, horribly. He put her foot down, gently, on the couch beside her.
“It’s not really funny,” he said.
“It is, though,” she said, and kept laughing.
He saw Julie more often at the pool, once he knew to look for her. She smiled at him and waved when she saw him. She sometimes came to talk to him, and when she did he saw her friends, giggling, pointedly not looking in their direction.
The summer grew hotter and drier. The heat was oppressive and the pool was more crowded every time Nate went.
Julie had a boyfriend—he thought. He saw her with him sometimes, saw the way he slung his arm around her waist, with a casual possessiveness. Nate wasn’t sure why he cared, or even if he did, really, or if he was just bored and seeking some sort of distraction.
She was a good distraction. Her tan lines were charming.
“Is Nate short for something?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “Just Nate.”
She sat beside him at a picnic table. Her thigh stretched out lean and tan beside his own. She leaned close to him; he could smell the chlorine and sunscreen on her skin.
“My real name’s Juliet,” she said into his ear.
He looked at her. She didn’t move away, but lingered, so that he could feel the rhythm of her breath sweeping across his neck. He tried to look without turning his head, tried not to place his mouth too much in the proximity of hers.
She broke the moment and sat back. “I guess I’m still looking for my Romeo,” she said, and stood to go.
He stood up with her. “How old are you?” he asked.
She grinned. “How old are you?” she asked, and walked away.
But she ran after him.
He was in the parking lot, beginning the walk home, and she came after him, all red and bright in the sunlight.
She caught him by the arm. “Take me out to dinner,” she said, a little breathlessly.
He began to say, “I can’t.” He began to say, “I shouldn’t.”
Instead though, he found himself opening his mouth and saying, “Okay.”
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