Tuesday night in Austin, and even at eight the sidewalk was giving off heat like a skillet. The window unit in my living room rattled and dripped, barely making a dent in the Texas heat. I’d just come from the shop — a three-bay garage on South Congress, where I spend my days up to my elbows in brake dust and differential fluid — and I’d kicked my steel-toes off by the door. The TV muttered an old sitcom I wasn’t watching. My laptop glowed on the coffee table, and my cat Barry, a fat orange rescue with a torn ear and a personality disorder, was deadweight across the keyboard. I was still picking grease from under my nails when the Facebook notification pinged.
Friend request. From a girl.
Hailey, her profile said. Twenty-two, maybe, blonde hair in a messy bun, holding an iced matcha outside a coffee shop I recognized over on Guadalupe. No mutual friends. I squinted through the smudge on my glasses — bifocals I’d put off getting for two years — and tried to figure the angle. At 53, you learn to recognize the patterns. A woman born the year I bought my first Ford pickup doesn’t just send a request because my profile photo looks distinguished. But I’m a nosy bastard. I clicked accept.
Less than twenty minutes later, a private message lit up the sidebar. “Hey! Saw your profile, you look like you’ve got good stories.” I typed back, “Depends who’s asking.” We traded a few mindless pleasantries, the kind you exchange while keeping one eye on the TV. Then: “How old are you?” I told her. 53. “Shut up,” she wrote. “You look amazing for 53. Seriously attractive.”
I set my glass of sweet tea on a coaster and rubbed the ache in my shoulder — the one that acts up every time a cold front is still three states away. Attractive. I haven’t heard that from anyone under forty since dial-up internet. The blinking cursor felt like a dare.
A few more messages, and then the pivot. “So… can we talk about adult things?”
Adult things. Jesus. I could play that game. But I’d spent the afternoon bench-pressing a transmission out of a Chevy Silverado whose owner had never changed the fluid, and my lower back was filing a formal complaint. I was too worn down for illusions.
“Sure,” I typed. “You start.”
“No, you start, handsome.”
Alright, then. She asked for it. I started typing. My knees—popping like I’m stomping a bag of tortilla chips every time I get off the creeper. Left hip’s got a better weather sense than the Channel 7 meteorologist, and it argues with me climbing into my F-150. My spine? A moody son of a bitch that decides when the workday’s over, and if I argue, I’m flat on the shop floor waiting for the muscles to unclench.
I told her about the heartburn that hits forty minutes after a brisket plate from Franklin Barbecue, and how I swear it’s worth it every single time. The Tums on my nightstand that rattle when I reach for my book. My reading glasses—lost three times a day, fogged from coffee steam, absolutely non-negotiable for figuring out if the menu says eight or eighteen. I typed about the forgetfulness: walking into the kitchen and standing there because my brain put the reason in a junk drawer, so I grab a pickle just to not waste the trip. My Fridays? They’re the back porch, a threadbare recliner, a quilt over my legs because the AC makes my joints hurt even in July, a mug of chamomile tea. Music isn’t the algorithm’s playlist—it’s Fleetwood Mac, Stevie Wonder, Bon Jovi. Best part of any day is yanking off my boots after twelve hours on concrete and feeling my feet get a goddamn break.
I sent the message. It was a goddamn pamphlet. Then I leaned back in my office chair, which squeaked in solidarity with my spine. The ice maker in the kitchen dropped a new batch with a clatter, and Barry flicked his tail. On the screen, three dots appeared. She was typing. Then they disappeared. Typing again. Paused.
One minute. Two. Five.
I got up, stretched — three distinct pops in my back — and walked to the bathroom to brush my teeth. The pecan pie I’d picked up from H-E-B on the way home had left a sugary film I wanted gone. I flossed, took my blood pressure pill, and studied the lines around my eyes in the mirror. When I came back, the message status read “Seen” and the time stamp was now eight minutes old. No reply. I refreshed the page. Nothing. I clicked on her profile.
“This page isn’t available. You have been blocked.”
I stood there in the dim living room, the TV forgotten, a commercial for a truck dealership blaring about zero-percent financing. The cicadas outside hit a nerve-shredding pitch. I snorted — a short, sharp laugh that made Barry twitch. Something in my chest unclenched. I shook my head. Blocked. Hell, I’ve had worse days.
I closed the laptop, scratched Barry behind his good ear, and walked to the kitchen. The clock on the stove blinked 9:52. I filled the kettle, set it to boil, and leaned against the counter, watching the steam start to fog the window over the sink. Barry jumped onto the counter and bumped his head against my arm until I scratched his chin. Tomorrow I’d be elbow-deep in a Subaru’s oil change and fighting with a Honda’s brakes. The shoulder would still raise hell. But right now, the kettle whistled, I poured the water over a chamomile bag, and the room smelled like something that didn’t need fixing. I killed the lights, stood in the dark kitchen with the warm mug, listening to the cicadas and the drip of the AC. After a minute, I set the mug in the sink and headed to bed.
