Lockdown | Conor Mason

The Same Sun

Hey so uhh...is it supposed to look like this?

I'd been sliding my pasta from the pot into a big bowl when the text message came. I glanced at my phone, licking a sauce-covered thumb. The photo looking back at me from my phone's screen sent me spitting the sauce out again with laughter.

I hastily wiped my fingers and grabbed the device.

Jesus, what did you do! I typed, then quickly backspaced. Don't be an ass.

Sort of? Hehe. Maybe it needs more almond milk?

To say Conor's cashew sauce looked something like regurgitated cottage cheese would have been a kind description. I shook my head again, watching the screen for a response. What came instead was a loud grinding noise from next door, rising in pitch until it screeched to a sudden halt.

I heard Conor's voice through the wall — I couldn't make out the word, but the tone said it was certainly an expletive. A pause, then my phone rang.

I looked down. He was video calling me. Panicking, I stared at the phone - I probably looked a right mess. But what could I do? I ran my hand through my hair, put on a smile, and hit Accept.

The screen widened to a red-faced Conor, looking grimly at me, but with a playful light in his eyes.

"It broke," he whined, and switched the camera round so I could see the debacle on his counter: the blender askew in its holder, its plastic base cracked and the sauce oozing out onto the counter, a faint line of smoke rising from the motor.

I tried to keep a straight face, I really did, but when he turned the camera back onto his pouty mug, I just lost it, bursting out laughing.

"It's all your fault, y'know!" He feigned a look of consternation, then his smile cracked through.

"You didn't tell me you had an ancient blender! How old is that thing anyway?" I leaned on the counter and squinted at my phone, trying to look closer.

Conor turned to look at the blender, still giggling. But when he turned back he gulped hard, and stammered for a moment, then spoke.

"Umm, yeah, was my mum's..." He cleared his throat. "I'll see what I can do with this and see you outside, 10 minutes?

"You should be able to salvage some of it," I reassured him. Why was he looking at me like that, suddenly panicked? I was about to ask when he spoke again.

"Yep, probably. Ok, see you."

The call ended, and the tiny photo of me in the lower-right blew up to screen-size. I gasped at the image and hastily stood up, straightening myself, feeling embarrassment rise quickly to my face.

It had been too small to see before, but when I leaned over the counter, I'd just given Conor a direct view right down my grey tank top.

I rushed to my room to put on another shirt , the embarrassment too much. But as I pulled a blue cable-knit sweater over my head I found a small smile playing on my lips.

Stop this, I told myself, as I paused at the mirror to gaze at my face. He's just a neighbor -- a famous, one, but a neighbor only.

Still. I couldn't help but note how pale the lack of sunshine was making me. I swept a blush over my cheeks. Why not, I thought, picking up the eyeliner.

What was I doing? I barely even wore makeup to work! But the face that looked back at me -- marginally better-looking, I thought -- just smiled.

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