Lek’s Diary

Strong, hunky construction workers in those loose, white coveralls, with no shirts under them, giving the impression that was all they were wearing. Heavy-duty construction boots, wide-stance strutting to and from the dumpster like they were heavy hung. Moving with the grace of dancers, contrasting tantalizingly with the hulkiness and roughness of their bodies. All smiles, patting each other on the back and rump intimately. The construction supervisor, Andy, moving among them, more muscular than any of them. Tattoos on his bulging biceps as well as on his calf. Rough, calloused, but sensitive, hands, moving expressively. He so attentive as he sat at my kitchen table.

“There must be some story behind it,” I said, “and to think that it was developing just on the other side of this wall from me and I didn’t know it was happening—or care.”

“You mustn’t be hard on yourself,” Andy said, giving me a sympathetic look and ever so briefly touching my forearm with his rough, calloused fingers. “That’s the way it is with city life. I’m sure you were having your own concerns here.”

“Yes, I guess I was.” That’s when I told him about Tim and how harrowing it was that week that Tim was dying and there wasn’t anything anyone could do—or was doing—to prevent that. It, of course, was only a week, though, and whatever was developing next door surely built up over much longer time than that. But Andy was right about urban life. Everyone here husbands their privacy. I couldn’t say that either of the women, even the few times I saw them, appeared to be open to approach. Not that I ever gave a thought to approaching either one of them.