I fixed a cabinet hinge, cleaned out a gutter, changed lightbulbs, and took out trash.
She complained through all of it.
I held out my hand and said, “Deal.”
“You’re late.”
“It’s been four minutes.”
“Still late.”
I would tell her she was impossible, and she’d say, “Yet you keep coming back.”
Slowly, without either of us saying it, things changed.
She started asking me to stay for dinner. Her cooking was terrible, but she acted offended if I noticed.
Slowly, without either of us saying it, things changed.
Once she made meatloaf so dry I drank three glasses of water trying to get it down.
“This is awful,” I told her.
She pointed her fork at me. “Then die hungry.”
We watched game shows together in the evenings sometimes. She yelled at contestants like they could hear her.
She told me about her life, and I started telling her things I didn’t usually tell anybody: about foster homes, learning not to get attached, and never really planning past the next rent payment because it felt dangerous to count on anything more.
She yelled at contestants like they could hear her.
One night, she muted the TV and looked at me hard.
“You only ever think about surviving the next month, James. Don’t you have dreams?”
I shrugged. “I think I’d like to keep going at the diner. Maybe earn a promotion.”
“Well, I guess that’s something,” she replied.
