Page 21 of Diesel

“Why not? I’m making conversation. Trying to get to know our new friend.” Walter’s dentures clicked. “I’ve dated forty-seven women. Forty-eight if you count Carol, but we only went out twice before she said I was too much.”

“You are too much,” Irene said.

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

Ollie’s hand found mine under the table, squeezing once in what might’ve been apology or solidarity. Maybe both. His palm was warm, and I turned my hand over, lacing our fingers together.

“A few,” I said, answering Walter’s question. “Nothing serious…until recently.”

Greta’s eyes lit up. “Recently?”

“Leave him alone,” Ollie said, but he was smiling now, some of his embarrassment fading. Good. He never had to be embarrassed around me, not after the life I’d led. Ollie was a tame kitten in comparison.

“We’re just curious,” Irene said, adjusting her lavender scarf. “You’re very handsome. Ollie’s very handsome. It’s basic biology.”

“Basic nosiness,” Ollie corrected, giving my hand a small squeeze. I returned the squeeze, careful of my strength.

“Same thing,” Irene said.

At the front of the room, the woman with the microphone tapped it twice. “All right, everyone. We’re about to start. Make sure you’ve got your cards ready.”

Ollie released my hand and reached for his own card, organizing his daubers by color. I found myself watching the way his slim fingers moved instead of paying attention to the game.

“First number,” the woman announced. “B-7.”

Around us, people started marking their cards. Ollie dabbed his purple dauber on the appropriate square then glanced at mine. “You’ve got it. Right there, near the bottom.”

I found the number and marked it, the dauber making a satisfying squelch against the paper.

“N-32,” the caller continued.

“Got it,” Greta said, marking her card with aggressive enthusiasm.

The game continued. Numbers were called, daubers flew, and gradually I started to understand the appeal. Not the game itself. That was just organized randomness, but the atmosphere. The easy camaraderie, the trash talk between tables, and the way everyone seemed fully invested in marking their cards with lightning speed.

“So, Diesel,” Greta said during a lull between numbers, “what do you do for fun?”

It was an easy enough question that I answered without thought. “Mostly work on bikes.”

She gave me a flat look. “That’s not a hobby, that’s your job.”

“It’s both.” I didn’t bother explaining the satisfaction of a clean carburetor or the smell of gasoline on my hands.

“He took me to an overlook,” Ollie cut in, then went stiff like he hadn’t meant to say it.

All five seniors swiveled their heads toward him. Then me. Then him again.

“An overlook,” Irene echoed, and her tone said she knew exactly what that meant.

“For the view,” Ollie tacked on, too late and too weak.

“I bet,” Walter said around a click of his teeth.

“O-63,” the caller announced, mercifully interrupting.

Ollie dabbed his card, but not before I caught the flicker of his eyes cutting toward me. He snapped his gaze away the second I noticed.