Page 23 of Diesel

“I can do two things at once.”

We played four more rounds. Ollie took one, Irene took one, and Greta came close enough in the third that she lodged a formal protest over G-52 with the caller. The number had been called. It was on the board. Greta had decided the facts were beside the point.

Somewhere in the middle of all of it, I realized I was having a blast.

The final game ended and the room began to empty. Daubers and lucky charms disappeared into bags. Chairs scraped back, canes found their footing, and conversations shifted from bingo strategies to whose turn it was to drive.

Ollie stood and stretched, his shirt riding up slightly to show a strip of skin above the waistband of his jeans. I most definitely stared.

“Okay,” he said, dropping his arms and catching me looking. “That was fun. Despite your complete inability to play bingo.”

“Told you I was bad.”

“You were cheating in reverse.” He was still smiling though. “Thanks for coming. Senior bingo isn’t everyone’s idea of a night out.”

“It was exactly thrilling enough.”

“Liar.”

“I got to watch you, got to meet everyone, and got to see Greta threaten a bingo caller. I’d call that a win.”

He looked at me a second, then reached over and ran two fingers down my forearm. Barely anything. Still hit like a livewire. “Walk me out?”

“Yeah.”

Goodbyes took longer than they should have. Irene held me by both hands and told me next week was mandatory. Greta said something about her grandson being single that I decided not to hear. Walter’s handshake nearly took my fingers off, which felt like a compliment from a man who’d spent the last two hours at war with his own dentures. Edith touched my shoulder and called me a gentleman, which from her felt like being knighted.

Artie was last. He squared his blazer and looked at me directly. “You treat him right.”

I shook his hand. “Planning on it, sir.”

“Good man.”

We threaded through the last of the crowd toward the exit. Near the door, Ollie’s pace slowed. A bulletin board. Yoga classes, book clubs, a barely used wheelchair for sale. His eyes snagged on something near the center, and he stopped entirely, pulling a bright orange flyer from its thumbtack and reading it with an expression I hadn’t seen on him yet.

“What’s that?” I asked, moving closer to read over his shoulder.

“Patty’s Paint and Sip.” He held it up. The flyer advertised an event at some art studio downtown. “Painting class, but casual. You drink and follow along while someone teaches you.”

“You paint?”

“Not even a little bit.” He looked up at me. “That’s the appeal. You’re supposed to be bad at it.”

The flyer showed a picture of a sunset over an ocean, the kind of thing that looked easy until you actually tried to recreate it. Below that, the date and time. Next Saturday evening.

“You want to go?” I asked.

“Maybe?” He worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “I mean, if you’re interested. No pressure. Painting isn’t everyone’s thing, and you’ve already done senior bingo, so your obligation is more than—”

“Yes.”

He blinked. “Yes?”

“Yeah. It sounds good.”

“You’re sure.” he asked.

“I’m sure.” My hand settled at the small of his back, and he shifted toward me, just slightly. “I want to go. With you.”