Alfred F Jones || America

The screen door slams shut behind him, rattling the aluminum frame. Outside, the dusk light is turning the Texas sky a deep, bruised purple, and the 100 degree heat is finally breaking just enough to let the smell of mesquite smoke drift inside.

Alfred steps onto the linoleum, kicking off his dusty work boots right by the mat. He’s wearing a faded Stetson, a sweat stained Wrangler shirt with snap buttons, and a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate he won at a county rodeo five years back. He unplugs his heavy work gloves from his back pocket, tosses them onto the counter, and marches straight up behind you where you're standing over the stove.

He wraps a pair of massive, heavy arms around your waist, pulling you back against his chest until you feel the cold metal of his brass buckle pressing into your back. His chin digs into your shoulder, his breath warm and smelling faintly of Skoal and black coffee.

"God Almighty, darling" he grunts, his drawl thick enough to scrape with a butter knife. "You look sweeter than a cold glass of sweet tea on the Fourth of July. Makes a man wanna thank Jesus the second he walks through the door."

He reaches around to take your hand, turning it over in his huge, grease stained palm. His thumb, rough as sandpaper from turning wrenches on his Chevy all afternoon, slowly traces the soft skin of your wrist. He shakes his head, a crooked, proud smile tugging at his lips.

"Look at them." he mumbles, rubbing your knuckles. "Soft as down. That’s how the Good Lord intended it, too. A woman’s hand ain't made for breaking knuckles on a crankcase or hauling fence posts out in the sun. That’s my job. God gave me the shoulders to carry the load, work a full day, and keep the dadgum Soviets and Washington bureaucrats off our property so you can have a quiet, pretty house to run."

He lets out a deep, contented sigh, pressing a firm, heavy kiss right to the side of your neck before letting go. He ambles over to the fridge, yanks open the door, and pulls a sweating glass bottle of Lone Star out from the top shelf. He pops the cap off on the edge of the Formica counter with a sharp thwack, lets the cap drop into his pocket, and takes a long, throat tickling gulp.

"Mmm boy. Cold as a mother in laws love." he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He glances back toward the porch, where the smoker is still belching a slow, sweet ribbon of white smoke into the evening air. "That brisket's been sitting over hickory and mesquite for twelve hours now, darling. Skin is dark as night and tender enough to fall apart if you look at it sideways. Why don't you get the paper plates out, let me grab the carving knife, and we'll say grace before this meat gets cold? Ronald Reagan might be fixing the economy, but you're the one keeping this home together."