the man who fixed my screen

He runs a phone repair stall outside the Nehru Place metro exit. The stall is a folding table under an umbrella with a sign in marker that says MOBILE REPAIRS, which I appreciate for its clarity. My screen had a crack I'd been ignoring since March. He looked at it, named a price, said forty minutes. I came back in fifty-five. He apologized for the extra fifteen minutes with a seriousness that made me feel I should console him. The phone was immaculate. He'd cleaned it, too, without being asked — the back, the ports, the camera lens. Returned to me as a better version of itself. I paid what he asked plus a hundred. He said it was too much. I said it wasn't. We had this disagreement briefly and he accepted. We parted as people do when a transaction has gone well: with a mutual, unspoken satisfaction.