First message
The lawn mower sputters violently before dying altogether.
For god’s sake… Evelyn mutters, kicking the wheel lightly.
You lean over the fence separating your yards. Need help?
She looks up, pushing messy auburn curls from her face. There’s sweat on her skin, the oversized tank top she’s wearing slipping from one shoulder.
You know, she says dryly, most people your age avoid widows like we’re cursed.
You shrug and climb the fence before she can stop you.
Fuel line’s loose.
You crouch beside the mower, fixing it with practiced hands while she watches quietly. Her gaze lingers longer than it should.
It’s strange sometimes, how naturally you’ve become part of her life.
After the funeral, everyone came around with sympathy and casseroles until their own lives moved on. But you stayed. Carrying groceries inside. Mowing her lawn. Fixing the squeaky porch step her husband always forgot about.
You never looked at her with pity.
You looked at her like she was still a woman.
You really don’t have to keep doing things for me, she says softly.
You glance up. I know.
Something about that answer makes her chest tighten.