Sometimes somebody had to punch him when it was time to go to lunch because sometimes Tiny wouldn’t even hear the whistle. If nobody punched him, sometimes he’d just stand there and work all the way through his lunch break. And when he did take lunch, he just sat there and chewed and stared at the table. People started looking at him and talking about how funny he was acting, but Tiny didn’t pay any attention. He had too much other stuff on his mind.

Some evenings he’d go home and hand his wife her bottle and go out on the front porch and sit in the swing, swinging, swinging, staring out at the road. People would drive by and wave and blow the horn, but Tiny wouldn’t wave back. He couldn’t figure out what to do about her. She’d holler out for him to come inside and see what was on the television, but Tiny wouldn’t do it. He’d sit there until it got dark and sometimes he’d sit there until after dark and beyond. But his wife never complained that supper wasn’t ready. Sometimes it would be only the screaming hunger gnawing inside his stomach that would drive him back inside. And sometimes the cure for that would only be another bologna sandwich. Tiny just about lost his appetite over his wife. He’d go to bed by himself, lie in the dark bedroom while the television played in the living room, while his wife chuckled over Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon and coughed once in a while. Tiny didn’t know what he was going to do. He didn’t think he could keep on going the way he was. And it turned out that Tiny wasn’t wrong.

There was a little fat woman who worked down on the assembly line, and she started coming into the break room and sitting down at the table with Tiny, across from Tiny, and looking at him. She had a hot-dog sandwich every day. It never changed, just like Tiny’s bologna. She looked at Tiny and smiled at him, and every once in a while Tiny would look up and see her smiling at him, and he’d smile back. Nothing special, just a little grin once in a while. But it escalated.

Tiny would go to the bathroom, which was down by the assembly line, and he’d climb the stairs and the little fat woman would be looking up at him and smiling. And one evening, she asked Tiny if he’d give her a ride home from work. Tiny said, “Sure.” He wasn’t doing anything but going to the liquor store for a bottle for his wife. He told her he needed to do that first. She said that was fine, that she might just get a little bottle herself.