A wrench on a concrete floor. Black oil surrounding it. Tires off an old Buick. McDonald’s wrappers and bags balled up in the corner.

The radio plays Glenn Campbell singing Wichita Lineman. He hums along to it. A dog chained up in the backyard howls. The sun is going down.

She calls him in for supper. He turns the radio down. Be there in a moment. He says. The wrench is wiped off with a greasy towel and put away in the Craftsman toolbox. And I need you more than want you, Campbell sings. The old man turns it off and locks the garage door. He’s covered in WD-40 and fluids that smell of rust. Hands cracked. Rough. She hasn’t been touched by him in years.

Pinto beans are on the table with ham hocks and collard greens. A cast iron skillet holds hot  cornbread and butter melts in a tray.

How was your day? She asks

Almost got her fixed, he says. Jesse can pick it up tomorrow.

That’s good. How much are you charging him?

Don’t worry about it.

Minutes go by. They eat in silence. She makes a pot of coffee. He cracks open a second beer. The evening news is on. A magazine sits on the footstool. A picture of a man in a boat catching a large mouth bass is on the cover. The old man picks it up and stares at the picture. He wishes that it was him catching the fish.

She clears the table. Pours a cup of coffee and sits in the kitchen. Wondering when this will be over. The thick woman moves over to the couch and picks up her yarn. She stitches. He falls asleep in the Lazy-boy. Snoring. The dog barks outside.