I Can Fix That

“Oh. Um, hi.” Her voice was quiet and shy, but she smiled at me as though I had known her for years.

“I hope you didn’t see all of that. I normally don’t climb random shelves to get stuff. I tried to pull a box of tile down from a shelf a couple of weeks ago, and I got hit in the head. I had a migraine for a few days; after that, I try not to pull stuff down now. I even had to get a friend to drive me to work for a few days. I had a black eye and had to wear an eye patch. All of my kids said I looked like a pirate, so I had to make pirate-themed jokes all day, of course.”

She chuckled to herself and looked down at the stain. I glanced down at the can in her dainty hands and then back up to her smiling face.

When I didn’t comment on her ramble, she continued. “This was a stain I needed for my floors, and I didn’t want to ask for help.” Her bright, straight-toothed smile was flashing at me. I looked down at the can, the stain had clearly not been for floors, and my curiosity grew further.

Who even was this chick? That box of tile must have hit her pretty hard.

“I guess I could’ve asked for help, but I don’t really like people doing stuff for me. I think that’s why Gram left the house to me. She had linoleum on top of hardwood, and my friend told me I should stain them. I’m not sure Gram would like it, but she was always old fashioned—”

She fumbled over her words and used her free hand to gesture through her talking. Her lips were full and pouted when she was going through her rant.

Stop looking at her lips, you creep.

Did this girl always talk this much? I didn’t necessarily mind. But I was a stranger, and I was getting an earful of her nonsense.

“Well, I guess I’ll just pour this on top?” She was looking down at the poorly chosen stain, and my heart broke at the thought of those precious original hardwoods going to waste.

I ought to do something. Say something. I should probably tell her I’m a licensed contractor, and I’d gladly do it for her. I thought of all the ways I could refinish those floors, and I had every intention of telling her I wanted to help. I opened my mouth to suggest that she hire me, but my voice was caught in my throat.

What is happening?

I didn’t get choked up talking to pretty women, and I certainly was never found speechless.

I continued to stare down at her and make a slight grunt noise instead of responding to her outburst.

“Mm.”

Her eyes met mine again. She looked slightly taken back and flushed, likely embarrassed at her little outburst. I really should have explained myself, but my eyes were stuck on hers. I must have come across as an asshole, but that didn’t stop her from being polite.

She pulled her eyes away from mine and scanned around the shelving down to the stain in her hands. She walked toward me, and my chest tightened. “Well, I’m just gonna—” She pointed her tiny finger to the other side of me, gesturing that she needed to get by. I simply turned my body to the left and let her pass. As she went by, I got a trace of her perfume. She smelled sweet and floral. She reminded me of summer, full of life and sunshine.

When was the last time you noticed what a woman smelled like?

I avoided answering the question that rang in my head.

She was buoyant and cheerful, practically skipping in her walk to the register with her ponytail swishing side to side. I tilted back, so I could watch her sashay to the front. On the opposite side of her, sparks were flying from an older man cutting into sheet metal. I felt like I was watching her move in slow motion, bright white and gold glimmering from the background of sparks around her swaying hourglass shape.

Once the pretty girl was out of my view, I visibly shook my shoulders to focus. Trim paint. That was all I was here for. I walked farther down the aisle, trying to find the specific brand I grabbed for every house. I held a large can by the handle and let it dangle around my fingertips. My eyes trailed back to the water-based stain sitting on the top shelf. That poor girl was going to ruin what I was sure was some beautiful flooring. I prayed in the back of my mind that someone would stop her before she made that mistake. But I also secretly wanted her to ask for contractors in the area and call me.

I paused, staring off into the half-stocked shelves thinking of her. It had been a while since I had even taken a second glance at a woman. And yet there I was, not able to get this one out of my mind. I really should stop her and apologize, maybe offer to help her with those floors and whatever else needs to be done in that house.

I placed the paint on the concrete flooring and rushed back to the front. Once I got into view of the checkout, I took in the few people at the front. The only ones there were an older man and the same cashier, with no girl in sight. I walked quickly to the front windows. All I could see was my beat-up truck and a small, empty sedan in the parking lot.

She was gone. I was left with only a little memory of her to replay in my head—that and the treacherous thought of ruined hardwoods.