rock harbor

"Eighty-nine", Rufus thought to himself, "I'll be god damned."
He rubbed his calloused hands over the back of his neck, kneading the wrinkled skin and the muscles below, mystified by the blur of years. His skin had the weathered look of old saddle leather. Not polished and oiled, but rather the kind that was worked, soaked by the rain, baked by the sun.
He was tending to his patch of summer squash, plucking off the tender blossoms. The image was in his head: blossoms spread out on his old tin plate with some rice and corn tortillas. He could swear the smell was in the air as he bent over to pull off just a few more blossoms. The diamondback was sleeping just there and struck Rufus in the meaty part where his thumb joined his hand. He jerked his arm back and the small perfectly patterned rattler arced through the desert air.
"Shit," was all Rufus said.
He stood, looked down at the two puncture wounds, and then up at the craggy Chiricahuas. The Sonoran sun spilled into the valley and long shadows pointed east. Rufus shook his head and laughed.
"Sonofabitch," he said.
Rufus calculated. He had time enough to cook the squash blossoms, the rice, and warm the tortillas.
Then he'd lay down on his narrow bed and say goodnight to his long life.