She brushes the hair up away from her eyes and pulls at her pants. She pulls down one of the visor mirrors and checks her face.

“He might. I told you we used to come over here.”

“You said you didn’t give a shit what he did.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what are you worried about?”

“I’m not worried. I just don’t want him to catch me doing anything.”

“Aw,” I say. “Okay.” I understand now. She’s another one of the crazy ones. I don’t know why I’m the one who always finds them, goes straight to them like a pointer after birds. They’re not worth the trouble. They drive me nuts with their kids and their divorces and their diet pills and their friends in trouble and their ex-husbands for whom they still carry the torch. They promise and promise and promise. I know she’s crazy now, I know the thing to do now is just forget about it, go back inside, leave her out here. “Well, I’m going back in here and get me a beer,” I say. “I don’t want to get mixed up with you and your husband. I’ll see you later.”

I slide over to the door—I don’t have to slide far—and open it. I step out onto the parking lot and look back in at her. She doesn’t look up. She has some secret hurt in her heart that matters to her and doesn’t matter to me. I think about this for a moment. I weigh various possibilities and things in my head. For a moment I’m tempted to get back in and talk to her. But then I shut the door and walk away.

They call me in from the car bay the next day and tell me I’ve got a phone call. I figure it’s probably my mother wanting me to bring home something from the store, eggs or milk. I have grease all over my hands, under my fingernails, too, where it’s always hard to get out, so I tear off a paper towel and pick up the extension with that.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hey!”

I answer slowly. “Oh. Yeah.” I recognize the voice.

“This is Connie. What you doing?”

“Well,” I say, “right now I’m trying to fix a Buick. What can I do for you?” I look around and eye the shop foreman watching me. They don’t pay me to talk on the phone unless I’m ordering parts.

“I just wanted to see what you’s doing tonight. I wanted to talk to you about last night. Can you talk?”

I slip the receiver down between my head and my shoulder and wipe my hands with the paper towel. “Yeah,” I say. “I guess I can for a minute. What’s on your mind?”