My dad didn't know about the decrepit hut in our woods.  He gave me the name of the previous owners of our property and suggested that I ask them about it.  The last name of the family looked familiar--Povaser.  It was my mother who reminded me that Tony Povaser was the lifeguard at the pool.  Tony was my age, but none of the Povaser kids had gone to public school, and nobody knew them all that well. 
      I had no plans for the weekend, and after mailing a letter at the post office, I went down to the community rec center.  Tony wasn't there, but I left a message along with my number.  Within hours I received a text asking if I wanted to have coffee Sunday morning.  I noted that he must not be religious; it surprised me for some reason.
     Tony had long hair which he touched absentmindedly every so often, as if it might abruptly run off when he wasn't paying attention.  He also talked about it at odd moments, not necessarily in an affectionate or boastful way, but in a manner that led me to assume his blonde locks were always on his mind.  Would it be too much to say that his hair was like his child?  It was this characteristic of Tony's that I noticed immediately.  Also impossible to miss was his limited capacity for following social cues.  Knowing that he had been homeschooled solidified my conclusion that he was, inarguably, conversationally inept.
    "Well, you definitely dress like you're unemployed," he said when I disclosed my predicament.  "I'm just joking.  I'm sorry.  That was really rude.  What I mean is I would hire you on the spot if you weren't wearing those sweatpants."  He made a move as if ducking his head under the table to examine my inadequate attire, and I felt myself start to sweat.  My coffee mug was already empty, but I gripped it like a weapon, hoping he wouldn't notice that I was drinking nothing, when I tipped it nervously to my lips.
      "So you don't think anyone in your family ever built a shack or any sort of outbuilding?  It would be by the creek, about a mile or so from the house."
      He was grinning uncomfortably, unable to move forward with the shift in conversation.  I sat back patiently, until he said, "Gosh, I don't think so.  But I was pretty little when we lived there."
      I exaggerated my nods, trying to hide my disappointment.  "That's okay."  I found myself glancing at the door.  Tony's eyes watched mine, as I prepared to go.  Maybe he wasn't so clueless after all.  "So how come you didn't go to public school?"
      He cocked his head to the side, amused, and checked in with his hair by bringing a clutch of it to his cheek.  "I used to be mormon."    
      Suddenly I found myself exuding sympathy, as if he had told me he were raised in an orphanage.  "Tell me everything," I said.
      While we talked, the setting sun dove through the windows behind me and clung to my back, warm and heavy, like nursing progeny.  The hour I had told my mom that I would be home was long past, by the time I told Tony that I really should be going.  I think neither of us was aware how starved we had been for conversation.