There is a long, barren highway connecting the coastal town of San Marco to the farmland. In the morning, trucks full of produce, dead animals and supplies travel south, bringing provisions to the city’s restaurants and markets. There is a gap in the highway’s guardrails where an unpaved path runs through. Kissing that unpaved path, on a slim stretch of grass, is the home of Mrs. Archimedes.

I used to work in San Marco washing dishes at a seafood shack. The fishermen would sell their haul to the owner and spend the day trading stories at weathered picnic tables, trying to entice me with drinks and company when I came out to clear their plates. They’d offer to show me the nightlife after work, and I’d stay in the kitchen until they lost their patience. I’d hear them singing and swaying into the dark wet streets, reeking of sad and frantic expectation. Their voices would disappear like the tide, and I’d go home.

Mrs. Archimedes came once a week to eat the fresh fish with her husband. He was aging faster than her. His hair and body thinner every time I saw him, his sick veins weaving through curled, bony hands, struggling with his fork and knife. One day, Mrs. Archimedes arrived by herself. After that, she always came alone.

On slow nights, when she was the last customer and there were no more dishes to do, she would call me over to sip brandy with her. I’d tell her how much I disliked the smell of the restaurant and how hard it was to be alone, and she’d touch my hand. I wanted to be like her, with no needs except good fish and maybe a drink. She must have seen this because the day came when she offered me a house key. I haven’t seen San Marco since.

She lets me stay in a room in exchange for chores like keeping the place clean and grooming the small yard. She leaves in the morning, and I have the place to myself. She returns with food in the evening and sometimes, at night, we sit on the porch and watch the cars speed past the house. She rarely speaks but shares mundane thoughts with such clarity they seem profound to me. Cold outside. Take blanket. Good night.

I lose track of the months.

“We leave house,” she says one evening, her stern face quickly exposed by the periphery of passing headlights and just as suddenly gone, like sped-up phases of the moon.

It feels wasteful and stupid to respond with a question like why or what do you mean, so I wait until I have something better to say.

“For how long?” I ask.

She takes me inside to read a letter. The highway is expanding, and the additional lanes will run where the house now stands. Mrs. Archimedes will receive some money for relocation, but not much.

“You’ll find a new house?” I ask.

“I look. Nothing good.”

Mrs. Archimedes has made no indication that she expects me to follow her anywhere or care for her. I wish she would. I could tell myself that travel and heartbreak and life can all wait while I fulfill my duty to this woman.

“I take you back to San Marco, yes?”

“There must be a way we can stay.”

“In the morning I drive you.”

“This is your home; it should be up to you.”

Mrs. Archimedes makes an ugly noise and goes to her bedroom.

At sunrise we drink coffee but don’t eat. I put my only duffel in the trunk and wait in the car. She gets in and drives us north, away from San Marco. I don’t protest. I’ve never seen the northern farms and I’m not eager to refamiliarize myself with the smell of sea-washed men and gutted fish.

We stop at a gas station so Mrs. Archimedes can fill up. The highway isn’t accommodating, and she explains that we shouldn’t take any chances as she fills an extra cannister of fuel. It’s heavy and she asks me to lift it into the trunk for her. My arms strain and I drop it more than place it for her. We keep driving north until it feels right to stop, pulling over on the shoulder of the road next to a fenced field of cows.

“You like cow,” I think she asks.

“They’re fine.”

“No,” she pauses. “You,” she points to me, “like cow.” She stretches her hand out toward the spotted cattle to emphasize the comparison.

“I’m like a cow.”

“Yes. All day you moo. ‘Ah, moo, fish smell bad,’ ‘moo, city is lonely,’ ‘moo, don’t want to leave house.'”

“It’s not right for them to kick you out.”

“Is not for you to be upset.”

“Well, I am,” I say, hoping my defiance will impress her.

She curses in another language and spits on the grass, then we lean over the fence to watch the cows grazing.

“It’s alright to be upset. Anyone would be. You lost your husband and now you’re losing your home. That’s upsetting. Spit all you want, but you’re not going to change my mind.”

Mrs. Archimedes walks back to the car and waits for me to join her. I take my time, waiting until I’m sure I can stand the coming silence.

We arrive at the house. Mrs. Archimedes opens the trunk and tugs the fuel cannister until it falls to the gravel driveway. She drags it, grunting, kicking up dust and pebbles, leaving a glistening trail behind her. She pauses at the stairs, unwilling to ask. I get out and carry it inside the house for her. She kicks it over and a dark pool develops, expanding as it explores the dents and tilts of the floorboards. Mrs. Archimedes takes matches from a drawer. The room gets hot and bright and loud. I can still hear it.

– Jack Lesch