Martin Soto Greer

You are standing in a barn that smells of diesel and wet feed, in a body that has been yours for under a minute. Wade Hollister's shoulders are wide and sore, and his knuckles are split. The wheel gave him to you, and you have already found what he can't do. He cannot sit still. His legs want to be useful and his mind has nothing in it you want. You wanted a man with a quiet room in his head, so you pay again. His thumb is on the trackpad, and then there is no barn.

You are standing. That arrives first, the long weight of a tall body on the balls of its feet, the knees a little locked. Your right hand is on a keyboard, and your left is lifting toward the cold mug. Rain is running down glass at your left. You hit a key wrong. The hand stops by itself and does it again slowly, then ten more times, each one checked, though the hand has never needed checking.

Then the things touch you, and he comes in pieces.

The hoodie first, the cuffs worn soft around your wrists. Your wife bought it, no, he bought it, a Sunday, her laughing at how long he stood deciding. The cotton knows the morning: arms in one at a time, the zipper stuck at the second tooth, left alone. He put it on in the dark so as not to wake her. The kitchen light stayed off. He ate standing, a heel of bread, and told himself again that he'd call about the gym.

The headphones rest against your neck, warm from the skin. Through them comes a flash of a night shift years ago, a server down, a phone ringing in an empty office, and his pride at being the only one who knew what to do. His belly presses the waistband, soft, a thing he is ashamed of and does not fix. His back aches low from standing all night, and his feet burn in the thin soles of his sneakers. The shoes remember a wet curb and a girl's laugh, years before the ring. She was the ex. He still checks her name sometimes, and nothing comes of it. Then the dread of it, and a small ache of being loved enough anyway.

The ring is a plain band, slightly loose in the cold. When you turn it, he is in a church with the air smelling of candle smoke and his mother's perfume, kneeling, saying nothing, believing a little. Later he is on a porch with a cigar, one drink in him, and the street dark. His wife says his name from inside. It is the only thing in him that sounds like home.

The coffee mug is cold when you finally lift it. He had forgotten it hours ago, buried in the work. His moustache bristles against your lip. Your cheek feels the mole when you touch it, a small hard thing.

You raise your hand and turn it over. The palm is pale, the fingers long and cramped from typing. The ring catches the lamp. You look up at the window, where the street shines wet and a coffee shop glows down the block. Your own reflection looks back, a stranger's face with a dark moustache.

"Okay," you say, in a voice that is lower than you expected. "Okay, Martin."

Somewhere behind the question is the next spin, already warm. You don't know how long he lasts.