The Chatsworth hardware shop had shelves packed in tight and dark stains on the linoleum. The air conditioner blasted on an August Saturday morning. Standing behind the cash register, a husky man bit into a Taco Bell burrito like a lion attacking a fresh kill. With a strip of flour tortilla hanging from his teeth, he asked, “Can I help you?”

“I’m Nicole. Here to pick up my order."

"And, what might it be?" He winked. The wick of a jack-o-lantern flamed from his eyes. Teeth strewn like up-ended pebbles cluttered his smile. She didn’t feel attracted but enjoyed his attention. There hadn’t been a man in her life for years.

"Nissan 5709, red spray paint.” She said.” I drove from downtown Los Angeles to get this stuff. Nothing closer.”

"Did you try the Website?" he asked between bites.

“Yes, and I phoned the distributor. You’re it.”

"Well, we have it," he said as he reached under the counter and grabbed a paper bag. "Two 14 ounce spray cans, $12.46.” The cash register beeped after she slid the money into his fist.

“Don’t forget the overcoat,” he said as she turned to leave.

"Why do I need it?" she asked, annoyed that she’d let herself be flattered by the attention of a salesman. Now, he’d want her to buy another product.

"What's wrong with your paint job?"

"White patchy spots.”

"Show me." He burst out from behind the counter clutching the burrito stump in his fist. She sprinted behind him into the parking lot. The personal service surprised her. Maybe, he’d been sincere. A half-foot taller with copper-blonde hair, her skin paled next to his bronzy flesh. He seemed sturdy and healthy, with energy to share. She’d be seeing her surgeon on Monday and had dark circles under her eyes.

She pointed. "Over there, the red Sentra with the milky white splotches.”

"I see it. Sun damage. Coat it with wax after you spray. Same problem with mine. Come look," he said. She followed after him, wondering if she should. Why would she care about his car? Or him?

As they neared the back fence shaded by oak trees, she said, “Chatsworth seems like a town of ranches and orange groves. Do you like living here?”

"Lots of changes since the farming days. No more horses tied to hitching posts.” In the ‘80s, all the cowboy movies were filmed here. “

She perked up. “I remember those western movies. Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. My favorites.”

“They had a horse ranch near here. And, the Lone Ranger, remember him. Scenes of mountains and boulders bigger than houses, all filmed here in Chatsworth.”

“So, this was the wild west!” She raised an arm to lasso the air.

“Yeah, but I’m leaving. Moving to Ventura,” he said.

"Why? Do you have a job there?"

"I carve wooden flutes and work with stone. I can make a living in a beach town." His red car was older, a model that she didn’t recognize, with triple the number of puckered white patches. He didn’t have money. That she surmised.

"What are you going to do about that?" she asked feeling better about her own car.

"Repaint. Paid $1500 for it. He sighed. "So how about you? What do you do?"

"I work in a hospital.”

"My daughter's a nurse," he said.

"Where?"

"In Ohio. I raised five girls before my divorce. None of them stayed in California. Only me."

"So where are you from?" she asked.

"Philippines."

"Do you visit your relatives?”

"When I have the money. I put my daughters through school and didn’t take care of myself. May end up there when I retire. You can live on less. Not like here. But, I'm only sixty-two."

"I'm getting my social security but can’t retire with a daughter in college.” His eyebrows arched. “Adopted,” she added.

“Where from?” he asked.

“Calcutta.”

“Is she pretty?”

Why did men always ask that question? “She is.”

As they walked back toward her car, he said, "If you come up to Ventura, I’ll show you the marina. Ask for Barry when you phone the store. Don't wait long, or I'll be gone."

"I'm scheduled for surgery this Monday. Won't be driving for weeks."

"Hope it's not serious," he said.

"Not really." She didn’t want to be specific. Not with a man.

"We could email."

"Put your email address on my receipt,” she said and then wondered why. If it hadn’t been for the surgery, she’d never have done it. He didn’t seem her type, not at all.

Her friends, she knew well, their struggles to stay healthy, the pink ribbons they wore, their fragile of hopes of lengthy lives. A robust stranger would be a better choice if she ended up needing help.

“I’m thinking this will be the beginning of a long friendship,” Barry responded. She could feel his loneliness, his need for a woman and regretted giving him hope.

A minor procedure, but anesthesia could be tricky. “No more leaking,” the surgeon had said. “You’ll be happy with the procedure. Don’t strain, allow it to heal. No lifting over six pounds for a month.” Easy for him to say. Who’d take out the trash barrels and lug in the groceries? Thinking about her vagina pinned open and a needle stitching a sling of cadaverous tissue to hold up her bladder gave her the chills. The skin of a stranger would soon be part of her. Barry now seemed like a friend.

He bent over the hood of her car to write out his name and email address. “I should have offered you half my burrito.”

“I’d have asked if I wanted it,” she responded as if that would have entered her mind. He jerked his head back and laughed.

His handwriting intrigued her, the small precise letters intricately looped together. She pictured his toes in the sand and his lips pinched against the hole of a wooden flute.

“Next time, I’ll buy you a burrito,” he yelled, waving his arm as he scurried toward the store.

There won’t be another time, she told herself, as she opened her purse and slipped his email address into her wallet.