My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
He slipped the watch back into his pocket, his hand lingering on the dark wool of his trousers. “My shop went under three months after that because I couldn’t hold a hammer with this shoulder.”
A yellow light spilled from the open side door of the detached garage, cutting a bright wedge through the dark grass. I followed Christopher toward the hum of the old fluorescent tubes and found my father standing over his green riding mower.
My father did not look up when we entered, but his fingers kept up their rhythmic tapping against the metal hood of the machine. The side door of the mower’s engine casing was hanging loose, its latch bent out of shape.
“The hinge pin is gone,” my father grunted, his voice dry and flat in the cold workspace. “Can’t get the cover to sit flush so the safety switch will engage.”
Christopher stepped closer, his boots crunching on the dry leaves that had blown inside. He bent down, his thumb brushing his left coat lapel as he studied the damaged metal.
