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Another blank stare from the biker.
“Do you happen to know anything about cars? Are car engines anything like motorcycle engines? Like maybe the motorcycle engine is half a car engine or something? Is that what horsepower is?”
The monosyllabic man blinks, no doubt overwhelmed with my barrage of questions. “Yes, no, no, and no.”
It takes me a second to realize he answered all my questions in order. I smile at his adorableness and step aside so he can look at my car. He leans over the engine and grabs a dirty bandana from his back pocket. The man uses it to poke and open a few valves and lids or whatever else an engine is composed of. I stand beside him, trying not to gawk at how the muscles tighten and flex in his arms.
“What’s with the bandana?” I inquire, shuffling a little closer to him. It’s so I can see what he’s doing andnotbecause I want to smell him. After all, I should learn about this stuff while I have an expert here. Next time this happens, I might not be so lucky.
“Engine’s hot. And dirty,” comes his muttered response.
“Oh, so it protects your hands?”
A grunt and a nod is all I get in return.
I give the good Samaritan a little peace and quiet while he continues his inspection. Anxiety eats away at my nerves the longer the silence stretches between us.This can’t be good. If it was an easy fix, wouldn’t he have found it by now?
“It’s blown,” he states, straightening to his full height.
“Um, that’s not a good thing, I’m guessing?” My throat gets tight as I swallow past the lump of emotion.Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t you dare cry!
“It means the damn thing is dead. When’s the last time you changed the oil?”
“Uh…”
“And what kind of gas have you been putting in this thing? It’s ancient, so it should be getting unleaded, not anything diluted with ethanol.”
“There are different gas options?” I whisper, feeling stupid and childish. “I put in whatever was cheapest.”
Another grunt. “That’s probably what did it. Not sure it’s worth saving.”
“What? What do you mean? Like… no more car?”
What am I going to do without a car? This stupid hunk of junk is the only thing I have, aside from a duffle bag of clothes, what little I could pack of my shoe collection, and my contraband Alanis Morissette CD.
I’m vaguely aware of the man rattling off some car mumbo-jumbo, but it makes no sense to me. His voice fades into the background, replaced by my father’s cruel taunting.
This is why God made men to rule over women. They can make better choices and be better leaders. This wouldn’t have happened if you had a deacon with you.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out his nasty words. My breath grows shaky and uneven while my eyes burn with unshed tears.
Weak. Stupid. Gullible. Incapable.
The first sob breaks free, opening the floodgates. I gasp for air as tears stream down my cheeks.
“Uh, what… oh,” the man stutters, his eyes wide with shock.
I open my mouth to apologize for my outburst, but another sob rolls out of me, followed by more tears.
“Um… it’s… going to be… okay,” he says, awkwardly reaching toward me. He hovers his hand over my shoulder, then pats me twice before shoving his hands in his pocket.
I nod, but my entire body shivers as I cry my eyes out.
“Here,” the biker grunts, shoving his bandana in my direction. I take it without thinking and swipe it across one cheek and then the other. “Oh, you, uh…”
He points to my face and then back to the bandana. It has grease all over it, and I assume I now have grease on my cheeks. Great. Just wonderful.
“I’ll make it better,” he rushes to say. “Just stop crying.”
