So, I reckoned it was time I stepped in, since he didn't seem to be getting around to wandering out of my sight, and I had nothing better to do of a Saturday than pursue this mess. I opened the door to my little back steps, and sauntered out boldly, like I owned the place and all.
"Hey!" I called in my best tough, 1950's greaser bad-boy voice. "Are you looking for something?" I crossed my arms and tried not to seem shaky, which I usually am even in less nerve-wracking introductions to new people.
He looked at me with doe eyes. What a sentence, that, and I am glad to have had the opportunity to use it in this lifetime. But he was frozen in place, two saucers on his head peering at me, mouth dumbly slack, like he'd been caught raiding the cookie jar.
"I, ah, yes, I am looking for something," he said. His voice was nice - gentle, deliberate.
"What would it be, then?" I asked, dazed with human contact like the loser I am.
"Here!" he squeaked (yes, squeaked, like a boy going through the vocal changes of puberty), and his face brightened with a great, big, honking smile. Handsome, goofy son of a bitch threw me for a loop. Scantily clad men rarely happen upon my lair without my dragging them there first. And I am not generally attracted to the exceedingly smiley type, either. Yet I will confess, chaplain of my heart, that I did not want to punch him in the face, despite his stupid glee. I might have even found the moment charming, or some lame word like that.
The smiling moment did not last very long, for past its fraction of a second (all the time such smiles are usually afforded), his face dripped to a saner solemnity, and his lips smacked a couple of times with mild embarrassment and attempted recomposure of self.
I felt bad for the fellow. A little embarrassed myself, for his sake. I'd feel pretty silly bursting with emotion in someone's yard whilst being half-naked, so maybe my sentiments toward him softened. The charitable, nurturing parts of my brain started hashing out plans. My Motherly Sense was tingling. I prepared to spit out a web of kindness and hospitality to ensnare this criminal in my thick, gooey net of good and womanly works. Perhaps I would take pictures of my deeds, too, a la Peter Parker, only instead of sending them to the local paper, I'd keep them, you know, for private uses.