In September, I quit my job as a university librarian ("Are you insane, Ethan? That tenure position is going to open in just another year or two.") to answer an ad halfway across the country for an Itinerant Librarian in rural school district. ("Are you certain, Mister MacIren? Your resume is great; the position is yours if you want it, but the salary is fixed by the school board. We can't offer more.") It meant endless driving between scattered schools in my little Subaru to spend a few hours at each putting the right books into the hands of children who were already better at thumb-chatting on a phone than focusing on a paragraph of fixed text. After the first week of returning after dark, of every pair of eyes - even the school staffs' - suspicious of my new face, I thought I'd made a terrible mistake. It wasn't until that girl with the tremulous, hopeful smile stopped me to ask if I had any more Magic Treehouse books that I finally slept easy through a night.
It also meant giving up my apartment with the river view for something well beyond that fuzzy boundary of 'suburban'. When my friends posted on facebook that I'd gone granola, I posted a picture of the tiny cottage I'd bought with my meager savings. Granted, that was the picture the real estate agent had used to lure me into the 400-square-foot fixer-upper, and it didn't accurately reflect just how much attention it needed. Over the next couple of months I poured my heart into my job during the weekdays, but my sweat (and a few drops of blood) into the cottage over weekends. YouTube and library books taught me how to patch a roof, how to install double-paned windows, how to level and re-tile a floor. At least I didn't have to worry about looking the fool or howling like a baboon when I hammered my thumb - my home was two miles down an old lane that the county didn't bother keeping paved, with only forest and utility lines for company. The lane ran another half mile before rough stone walls closed in on the sides and a sign on a gate declared it private property. The one time I went exploring, I turned around and walked back to my own private stretch of the lane; I figured that was far enough away that 'being neighborly' didn't apply.
I was wrong.
I saw my neighbor a couple of times in those months - or rather I saw the old gray truck come rumbling up the road from the direction of the gate. It would always slow as it passed my cottage, and I probably gawked as I squinted to see through the reflections on the window. The one time I actually managed to glimpse a human, all I saw was a hand lifted in greeting. I'm sure they got an eyeful. Even in October it got hot up on the roof, and all I was wearing was a pair of old carpenter shorts and my hiking boots; my unruly brown hair clung in curly locks to my sweaty brow, my glasses were slipping down my nose, and my nerd-lean body was sheening. I didn't think to trade the hammer out of my hand and wave back until the truck was gone.
Later that evening when I drove into town for dinner, I asked after my neighbor. Marge, the old sweetheart at the cafe who was one of the few locals I'd managed to befriend, waved me off of it. "Don't bother." The meatloaf and green beans smelled divine after a long day of work, but I wasn't entirely sure that the white blob beside them was potatoes. "She's crazy, that one. Not in the sense that everyone's crazy around here in one way or another - I'm talking legitimate. There's stories I could tell you if I was more inclined to gossip. You should come to church if you want to meet your neighbors." As always, I thanked her for the invitation and deflected.
When I got back home that night, I nearly tripped over a brown paper package propped against my door. I stepped into the kitchen and flicked on the light before opening it up to reveal a red winter coat. My fingers traced the fur inside the hood. I never would have bought something like that for myself. For a moment I thought maybe it was meant to be a woman's jacket, but it fit me like it had been measured when I slipped it on. A folded piece of kitchen note paper - a leaf from one of those pads realtors always give with calendar refrigerator magnets - fluttered to the floor. It read in a quick, neat script: The winters get cold here. Wear this. - Your Neighbor from the End of the Lane
On Sunday, instead of hanging the raingutter on the eaves, I stayed inside to bake a couple batches of the oatmeal butterscotch cookies I usually baked around Christmastime. I piled them high on a good plate - the kind that gets returned - covered them with plastic wrap, and stuck on a note that read, Thanks! It's a perfect fit. - Ethan MacIren. Your cottage neighbor. The gate was closed. I stood a few minutes, deciding whether or not to just duck under it, before walking the mile and a half the other direction to the rail with both of our mailboxes and leaving the plate there.
Winter swooped in like a hawk diving for a squirrel on the road. One weekend I was debating wearing full jeans to go outside and rake the leaves off my walk, and the next it was gloomy and the winds blowing down from the Arctic were flirting with freezing. I woke Sunday to a white wonderland, a blue-gray early morning as magical as a greeting card. You have to understand that snow is practically a myth where I grew up, so I didn't stop for a moment before bundling up in the warmest clothes I had - including that red, fur-hooded jacket - and fighting my way out the front door and into snow up to my knees.
I felt like a kid: within a few minutes I'd left a snow-angel on what I assumed was my walk, and rolled huge lumps for a snowman that kept crumbling and falling apart when I tried to lift them. Eager as a deer I bounded off across the road and into the trees, giddy to fill my phone with pictures to prove to my family just what I'd gained by moving to the middle of nowhere.
Until you've been through a winter like that, it's difficult to explain how much the landscape changes. The road was no longer obvious, and neither were the ditches off to the side. I laughed as I stumbled face-first into the ditch and made a Looney-Tunes cutout in my shape. I wouldn't let the surprise snow-bath ruin my spirits (nor the fact that I'd nearly lost my phone for it); I went tromping off through the fields into the woods, taking photo after photo, catching thick globs of falling snow on my bare pink fingers to look for twin flakes. Wading through snow takes a lot out of you, especially when the next step could send you flailing waist-deep into a drift, or banging your toe on a hidden rock. And even with an obvious trail plowed behind me, by the time I was panting and shivering and wondering if maybe those work gloves would have been better than nothing, I wasn't sure where the cottage was, or how far away I'd tromped.
That's when I saw her. She sat astride a horse, just standing there, watching me. Her horse was barely hoof-deep - it must have been a firm path. I was a bit winded but I laughed, raised a hand, and called out, "Hi!" and began wading toward her.
She turned her horse away, tapping her heels and clucking to coax it to an amble, but she glanced back, still staring at me like I was supposed to follow. I did, clambering up onto the path I hadn't seen in the sea of white. She kept the horse at a walk, maintaining the distance between us until I crested the rise between us and saw I was on the lane, with my cottage just ahead. Only then did she click to her horse and trot away.
"Thanks!" I called after her.
Snowy mornings have a way of swallowing sound, so I had no idea if she didn't hear me, or just ignored it.
Tuesday, I left a note in her mailbox.
Thanks for the assist. Thursday night, 7:30p. Dinner at my place? I'll have a fire in the fireplace. I make a mean lasagna.
RSVP not necessary. - Your cottage neighbor.
Thanks for reading through that massive amount of text. I realize the length and subject matter are likely to turn most away, so I appreciate anyone making it this far! :)
I enjoy longer, slower RPs, but I'm not really expecting anyone to post 1500-word chapters with me on any kind of regular basis - especially not in initial responses where our characters are just getting to know each other. What I'd really love is something episodic, little glimpses into the life of Ethan and his neighbor - maybe we'd trade a dozen posts of them getting to know each other in his cottage, and then regroup OOC and think up the next little arc for them.
If you're not familiar with role-reversal, it's this in a nutshell: take any typical F4M post, and flip the genders around. I'd probably be interested in that. Ethan is more likely to be pursued than the pursuer; if he initiated the first kiss, it would be a surprise rather than the expectation. That makes him the submissive one, but not passive, not at all. And it doesn't mean he ends up tied to a bed or blindfolded either. Kink is great, but not assumed; anything beyond role-reversed vanilla, I'd like to sort out through the RP. It would be fun to reach that point organically, with the characters negotiating through their expectations.
That said, I can produce a detailed list of interests and kinks and limits on request if you're interested, but I'd almost prefer they didn't align, that there were things you (and your character) are interested that aren't on my list of favorites, to make the RP more of a stretch. Perhaps the same would be true in reverse? But I'm especially eager for characters who don't quite match up anyway: maybe they're culturally or politically opposites, or different ethnicities, or there's a substantial age-gap between them. Maybe she's wealthy. It's certainly not necessary, but I love an RP with meat in the characters and relationships and romance, and not just smut. If you have a great idea for a character that doesn't quite fit the details in the prompt, not too worry. We can change the details - just clue me in in advance so I don't make assumptions. This is very loosely based on a true story, but I want to tell our own story, not stay slave to history.
If any of that interests you, please don't hesitate to reply!
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