He looked tired in the particular way small-business owners often looked tired: not sleepy, exactly, but as though every problem that entered the building eventually became personally responsible to them.
The woman had studied the photograph before coming.
She knew this was him.
Older now.
Of course.
The photograph in her handbag had been taken nearly twenty years earlier.
The young man in it had been thin, uncertain, and standing beside her father with a socket wrench in his hand.
The man in front of her bore the same eyes.
That was enough.
She drew in a breath.
“Excuse me.”
He looked up.
Then he looked at what she was wearing.
The change in his expression was small.
But she caught it.
“Yes?”
“I’m here about the mechanic position.”
The man stared for half a second.
Behind him, one of the younger technicians glanced over.
Another pretended not to.
The single father looked back at the woman.
“The mechanic position?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her résumé folder.
Then her heels.
Then the emerald blazer.
Something about that second look made her spine stiffen.
He wiped his hands.
“You have experience?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Diagnostics. Engine management. Electrical systems. Mechanical repair.”
The younger technician looked over again.
The single father gave the woman another slow assessment.
He had been awake since five.
One technician had called in sick.
The truck in front of him had consumed almost two full workdays without giving him a clean answer.
A customer was already angry.
The shop had payroll Friday.
His eleven-year-old daughter was sitting in the office finishing math homework because the neighbor who usually picked her up had an appointment.
He did not have patience left.
Unfortunately, impatience often borrowed the voice of arrogance.
He gestured toward the pickup with the greasy rag.
“Look, I’m going to save both of us some time.”
The woman’s fingers tightened around her folder.
He continued.
“I need somebody who can actually work.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I can.”
“I’m not hiring for the front desk.”
“I didn’t ask for the front desk.”
He knew then he should stop.
Instead he looked at the velvet blazer again.
Bad decision.
“I need a mechanic,” he said. “Not somebody who’s afraid of getting grease on her sleeves.”