#bronanna

Finally his tracker dings and his prized flavor should be waiting for him on he shelves. He grabs his gloves and hat and heads out. It’s only ten blocks away so he doesn’t bother with his car. He just zips down the street, trying not to run through the store. He doesn’t even bother with a basket or a cart. He might pick up some sushi while he’s here. Or some pad thai. Who knows. But that’s low on importance because what he needs now is that perfect cylinder in his hands.

He ducks through the produce department and the meat department. The seafood twinges his nose a little. If he wasn’t in such a hurry he’d say hi to the fresh lobster, crabs, and other aquatic animals that are going to be dinner eventually. He skids into the snacks section and can see the glorious pink that he is going for.

Grilled Shrimp.

He can even see the shrimp artwork on the curve as he gets closer. It’s so close. It’s going to take all of his will power to keep from opening up and devouring it on the spot. He reaches out for the first package. He can hear the angels singing hallelujah.

Then his hand bumps into someone else’s. 

“Oh goodness, pardon me.”

He looks over at who else could possibly be interested in grilled shimp pringles and finds it’s a cute little old woman. A picturesque grandmother if you will. Short curly gray hair, round spectacles with a turquoise beaded chain, a slight over bite probably due to the lack of dental care in the ‘good ol’ days’, a pale unobtrusive modest flower print dress, and the palest blue eyes he’s ever seen.

“Oi, it’s no problem. More than one on the shelf,” he says scratching the back of his head. Something in his brain itches.

“Strider?”

“Who?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were a friend of mine. That was his last name.”

“And ya often call your friends by their last name?”

“No. He was… special.”

“Well, he’s prolly a lot older than I am, ma’am.”

“Oh don’t you get fresh with me. I haven’t seen him in a lifetime or two.”

The itch is back again, something nagging at the core of his brain but he doesn’t know what. “Strider, ya said? That’s a decent last name. Much better than mine.”

“What is yours? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Well, I got it from my foster family. Hofacker,” he answers with a wry grin.

“Oh dear.” She covers her mouth to hide her laughter. 

“Yeah, that’s what I think of it too.” He cracks a smile. “Say… d’ya think your friend would mind if I took that name?”

“Not at all dear,” she smiles brightly. “Not at all.”

“Dirk Strider…” he rolls the name around in his mouth. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

“It’s perfect.” It looks like her eyes are a little watery and he wonders how close of a friend Mr. Strider was.

“Hey, why don’t I buy you a can of these? In repayment for the name.”

“Oh you don’t have to, dear.”

“I want to. Maybe you can tell me more about Strider while we eat them. I know of a great park nearby.”

“I… I would like that.”

You are seventeen years old and working as a farmhand this summer because it sounded more interesting than manning the cash register at Ye Olde Fatty’s for another year. It was cool, but you’re over it. Your boss is a lady by the name of Jane Egbert, and you like her well enough. She’s older than you, much older. Lines around her eyes and her mouth that aren’t all from laughing.

"I hope you’re ready to work, Mr. Strider," she’d told you when you showed up, and you merely shrugged and spat in the dirt. Stupid bugs are everywhere. She doesn’t comment on your foul language or your bad habits (like cutting out early and stealing some of her whiskey for a few hours), but she works you hard. You wake up sore for the first two weeks, fumbling in the dark for your boots and your shirt, and come to resent that cheery smile of hers.

Not as much as you could. You’ve seen the pictures in her house of another man about her age and the way she fiddles with a gold band on a chain around her neck when she stops to pop her back out in the field. She can’t drive the tractor with as much precision as she used to, so she tells you, but her skill with her livestock is sharp as ever. That old milk cow has kicked you at least twice. She’s never so much as looked at Jane while she does the milking. You prefer the horses, anyway.

The farm is small and it’s going to tank soon, you know, but while you both have strength in your limbs you work that farmland hard as you can. The tender green of young crops becomes your one spot of refreshment in her dry dusty world. She pays you every Friday and lets you loose on the nearby small town every Saturday night. She only asks that you do your work during the week and don’t interrupt Sunday service with your snoring.

You tease each other sometimes, hip-bumping in the kitchen when trying to reach around each other and tugging on still-dark curls when she kicks your shins, but it’s all good fun. You help her weed the garden and water her flowerbeds, and sometimes you even help her clean house. You have become accustomed to her laugh and her quick-witted responses by the time June bleeds into July and the nights get much hotter and stickier than before. You keep a fan going on you while you sleep and still wake up drenched.

There’s one scary moment when a snake gets into the barn and spooks the cow, and as you watch she kicks out and slams Jane against the stall wall, then starts stomping. You drag Jane out first, looking a little woozy and definitely with a cut on her side, and then use the pitchfork to stab the snake (little garden snake, what’s the ruckus about?) and drag it out of the stall. The cow calms down. You scoop your boss up and take her back to the farmhouse.

"I’m fine," she insists woozily as you sit her down in a chair and grab the first aid kit from the washroom. "Really."

"Uh-huh," you grunt. "Stay still."

She doesn’t look like anything’s broken, though her head got knocked pretty hard against that solid wood, but a little probing and you discover her scalp is still intact, so all good. Now for that gash. Probably where the cow got her. You work her shirt up and gently touch the rapidly-blooming bruise, cleaning away the blood and assessing the damage.

"Stitches," you say, and she nods.

"Get the whiskey."

She takes a swig of it before you dip the needle in it, and then you sew her up with little fuss and are impressed when she doesn’t so much as whimper. Clearly this lady is tougher than you give her credit for.

Her eyes catch yours as you wipe down your handiwork and tape a gauze patch over the top, very bright blue and clear, and you pause for a moment too long in touching her skin before pulling her shirt back down. She moves carefully and you try not to look at her again.

It’s a night with a storm on the wind, electrical and humid, when she tells you ‘thank you’. She does it by handing you a glass of something as you sit on the front porch, and an absent sip tells you it’s strawberry wine. Watered down a little, but you’re familiar with the taste. She sits down next to you on the steps, a little careful of her injured side, and you notice she’s in a dress.

She’s never worn a dress. You’ve only ever seen her in overalls and sturdy jeans, so to see her not only in a flowing dress a little too out-of-date and with her hair clean and brushed is a bit of a surprise. You can’t say you aren’t a little suspicious.

"You look nice," you say, and she grins, biting her lip a little and looking away.

"Good," she says. "Thanks for your help this summer, Mr. Strider."

"Glad to help," you say. You sit in silence, sipping the wine, and watch the lightning flash in the distance. A low roll of thunder rumbles closer.

You’re not sure how it happens, but her free hand is very close to yours, pinkies brushing, and you are aware of how she smells—not like sweat and hay and dirt, but vanilla and warm wood and a little bit like strawberries. She’s a different Mrs. Egbert than you’re used to tonight—a different Jane, you should say, you haven’t called her Mrs. Egbert since she told you not to the first day.

"I think I’m gonna turn in," you say, and mean to move, but her little shift—a scoot closer—gives you pause.

"You should do that," she says. "A man needs his rest."

That’s…something. She’s been calling you “boy” all summer. The thunder crackles a little louder and the lightning dances between the clouds.

"It’s gonna rain," you say. She nods.

"I should go," you say again, and look at her. Her face is still turned to the fields, but different, hard and intense and soft all at once. Her jaw is relaxed and her shoulders are thrown back and although the dress is an older style it still looks very pretty on her. You notice her skin does not look half as leathery as you thought it was without all the dirt in the way.

"Can I take your glass inside, Jane?" you ask, maybe leaning in a bit too far than the question merits, and she turns her head, leaning back a little to accommodate your closeness, those blue, blue eyes flicking over your face. You don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know what you’re doing but you’re gonna keep at it.

"If you could," she says softly, and you mean to take her glass, you really do, but her hand is on your cheek. You’ve grabbed those hands before, but they’ve never been like this. Like velvet.

You’ve never done this before but you throw caution to the wind and you kiss her, and she kisses you back and it’s an education for you, in its way—she’s older and more experienced, and by the time the rain starts coming down she is teaching you many things you know you wouldn’t have learned any other way than from her.

You leave her that summer because you have to, and she leaves you with nothing but a final bittersweet kiss that tastes like strawberry wine and an entire summer’s worth of memories. You think about her sometimes, and you think about her hands and her eyes and her mouth, and you break out the picture album to take another look.