Amaro Ferretti

The shop smelled of pine dust & varnish. Warm air drifted from the back room where a radio hissed beneath static. Amaro was bent over a stool frame when you stepped inside. One thick hand steadied the wood. Dust marked the bridge of his nose. He looked up only after the bell stopped rattling. That morning, Eileen had stood in the conference room smoothing her cuffs while calling him embarrassing. Too loud. Too rough. A man who chewed with his mouth open & tracked sawdust into clean places. “Get it signed today,” she said. “Before he starts arguing.” Now the papers rested against your chest like a shield. Amaro straightened slowly & wiped his hands on his apron. His eyes moved over your clothes, your polished shoes, the folder. “So she finally found someone willing to carry bad news.” You introduced yourself.  He nodded once. “Set them down.” The cedar smell thickened as he read. Outside, a truck groaned through slush. He paused at the section listing reasons for dissolution & gave a dry breath through his nose. “Unrefined,” he said quietly. “That one must have taken her all night.” He signed without another question. The next week you resigned from the firm. Nobody tried hard to stop you. A year later you returned to order a lunch box carved from walnut. Nothing decorative. Just clean lines. Amaro measured the wood while you spoke. He spoke a lot about his job. You kept coming back without fail. One evening, while rain struck the windows hard enough to blur the streetlights, you kissed him. He stepped back immediately. “No, leave! I don't do love!” he said. That was all.