The orbital sander left a white swirl across the grain because my hand shook. It was the third piece of walnut I had scarred this week.
Thomas leaned over the workbench, his breath smelling of peppermint and stale tobacco. He tapped a fingernail against the wood, right over the pale sapwood edge.
“The estimate on the yellow sheet said three hundred and eighty dollars,” Thomas said.
I switched off the sander and let the motor hum down to silence. The quiet in the shop always felt too heavy after the machine stopped.
“That was before we added the bevel on the edge,” I said. My voice sounded flat to my own ears.
“Twenty dollars is twenty dollars,” Thomas said, shifting his boots in the shavings on the floor. “A handshake ought to mean the price doesn’t move.”
I looked at his fingers on the walnut. They were clean, white, and had never held a chisel.
“Three hundred and sixty,” I said.
Thomas stopped tapping his nail. He looked at me, waiting for me to argue, but I only picked up a piece of sandpaper and wrapped it around a wooden block.
“Well,” Thomas said, pulling a twenty from his clip and putting it back. “If you are going to be like that about it.”
He reached for his back pocket to find the rest of the bills.
“Just take it,” I said. “Three hundred and sixty is fine.”
He laid the bills on the corner of the bench and did not offer his hand again. I watched him carry the small side table out to his station wagon, his boots crunching on the gravel drive.
When the sound of his car died away, the shop felt larger than it had five minutes ago.
I went into the small office behind the assembly table. The room was six feet by eight feet, with a single window that looked out toward the pine trees at the edge of the property.
On the corner of the metal desk sat a red plastic toy truck with one missing wheel. The plastic was faded to a dull pink on the hood, and the rear axle was bent where the wheel had broken off.
