The man in the orange apron doesn’t know I’ve come here partly to think.
I tell myself I need a certain kind of screw, and maybe I do, but what I really need is the smell of cut lumber and the weight of a good hammer in my hand, the way it makes a promise.
The bins of washers and bolts go on forever, silver and brass and dull grey, each one a solution to a problem someone somewhere is holding.
An older woman with paint on her forearm studies the sample cards for twenty minutes. She picks one up, holds it toward the window light, sets it down. Picks up another. She is doing something important.
I find my screws. I linger anyway. I run my thumb along the edge of a level, read the small green bubble as it settles, and think about how rarely I am that honest about whether I’m true.
At the register, the man asks how I’m doing and waits for an actual answer. I say, pretty well, I think, and mean it. He nods like that’s enough. Outside, the light falls sideways through the oaks. I sit in my truck a moment before starting it, holding the small bag of ordinary things.