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Jim lowers his cue and stares at the table. “Bloody hell.”

“Don’t start.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were absolutely going to.”

He gives the balls another look. “I was just wondering if you meant to hit any of them.”

I glare at him.

Jim cracks up. He’s pushing eighty and still sharp as hell.

“You’re way off your game tonight,” he says, chalking his cue. “And that’s saying something, because you’re usually shit.”

“Yeah, well, I’m crippled now, aren’t I?” I gesture at my useless left arm. “Fucking hurts.”

But it’s not just that.

It’s that damn woman.

A week of straight rejection.

The day after the gate thing, I went over to apologize for staring at her chest. It wasn’t my finest moment. I know that. But my brain saw something it liked and briefly stopped taking instructions. I can’t help that.

Anyway, she didn’t even open the door, despite the fact that I knew she was home. I saw the curtain move.

Bit rude, if you ask me.

The next morning, I tried catching her before she left for wherever she keeps going. She reversed out of the driveway so fast I had to jump back before she took my knees off.

Then I gave her some space to calm down.

I tried again.

This time, I went with the helpful-neighbor thing. Less talking, more practical. Women like practical.

So I waited until she was dragging her trash can toward the curb, I crossed the lawn, and grabbed the handle before she could stop me.

“I’ll take that.”

“I’ve got it.”

“Let me.”

I tugged.

For once, she decided to listen. She let go. The trash can lurched sideways, the lid popped loose, and something wet and brown spilled across my shoes.

Carmen looked down at the mess, then back up at me.

“Well. You’ve got it.”

Then she marched back inside like I was the one who made that difficult.

What the hell did I do wrong?

I glance at Jim. He’s been married and divorced twice, so his advice on women is probably terrible. Still, maybe he can tell me where this keeps going wrong.