He Used to Know How Everything Worked

He pressed the wrong button twice

and looked around

to see if anyone had noticed.

I was standing a half-step behind him —

close enough to watch,

far enough to pretend

I wasn't watching.

He held his wallet with both hands

while the screen processed.

I don't think I've ever really looked

at his hands before.

The knuckles. The way he held the card out

toward the slot

like he was offering it

to someone who might say no.

He used to fix things.

I have a clear memory of him

under the kitchen sink —

not asking, not needing to.

Just solving it.

Some knowledge I assumed

was permanent.

The machine beeped.

He looked at the screen

and pressed what he was supposed to press.

Then he looked at me

and smiled, like: got it.

And I smiled back, like: of course you did.

And we walked out

and I carried the bags to the car

without mentioning any of it,

which felt like something,

though I couldn't tell you what.