Hot flashes

She sat on his work stool in the garage, the one with the torn seat cover. Parked in front of an industrial fan, the sweat that ran down her chest and into her bra quickly evaporated. Her wet ball cap was discarded on the concrete floor, along with her well-worn work gloves. Little drops of perspiration made puddles at her feet as she leaned forward, and tried to catch her breath.

It was Florida hot out there and she had just finished mowing and edging the front lawn. Their neighbor to the left had serious sprinkler issues and the spray heads along their shared property line drenched their side yard more than his. The grass there was thick and green, and made for a hard slog to get the mower through that patch of Augustine.

Her arms were going to hurt once her muscles cooled down and a heat headache was already brewing. A headache that would keep her from remembering to tell her Mister to check the cables on the mower. The self-propel feature wasn’t working and it was a struggle to push the old Troy-Bilt for two hours.

The loud scrape of the garage door opening got her attention and a tall glass of iced water materialized in front of her. Standing up to take the proffered life-saving drink, she smiled. The whir of the fan masked the sound of his car pulling into the driveway, and she was surprised to see him home early.

Out of habit, she stepped in to hug him, stopping short when she realized how wet she was.

“Oh, don’t,” she warned him. “I’m all dirty, nasty, sweaty.”

Taking her in his arms, he pulled her into a tender embrace, and kissed her grass-clipping slick face.

“That’s just how I like it.”