First Repair and Conversation
Repairing the broken chair leg. Harold chuckled. “Wood cracks when you make it angry. First, calm it down.” He handed me sandpaper, and I matched my breathing to his. My hands might be clumsy, but I could offer care. The moment the leg clicked perfectly into place, he gave me a thumbs-up. “You’ve got good hands.” My chest felt just a little bit wider.
After work, we split a pizza from the food truck. It was greasy and perfect. Harold kept asking questions. “Family? School?” I told him things that were hard to say. My dad left early. I couldn’t afford tuition and dropped out of community college. I’m scraping by with deliveries. “Then you’re good at scraping by,” he laughed.
