He hadn’t exaggerated his cooking skills. The man threw down in the kitchen. One bite of his enchiladas and I was in heaven. The Verde sauce that came from an old family recipe rivaled what I’d eaten at restaurants. After helping do dishes, we migrated to the living room to watch television. His arm around my shoulders is nice. I toy with his fingers as the movie winds to a close. His hands, like the man himself, are a contradiction of hard and soft. The callouses on his fingers come from cutting hair and woodworking. “Edgar?” “Mm-hmm?” “Can I see your shop?” I ask curiously. “Sure. It’s in the back. I converted a shed. It has electricity and enough space for me to pursue my interests. It’s nothing fancy.” “That’s okay,” I say with a shake of my head. Standing, he offers me his hand, and I take it.
