Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
2004
Heavy raindrops cascade off the roof of the mechanic shop, its metal shingles mottled with splotches of orange rust. The sight forms tight, pretzeled knots in your stomach as dreary storm clouds loom over town. You stall outside for another minute, soaked pebbles crunching under the soles of your shoes as you pace near your car.
After exhaling a quelling breath and rolling your shoulders back, you slowly walk toward the half-closed garage. Harry is running the shop all by himself this afternoon, working gruesome nine-to-fives just about every day of the week. You don't know how he does it, so you try to visit and keep him company once in a while.
Today, however, is different. The brakes on your car have been squeaking incessantly, and you know jack squat about anything car-related, so you had no choice but to ask your ex-boyfriend for help.
Yes, your ex-boyfriend.
You would honestly rather listen to him drone on about all the intricate parts of an automotive than some wise guy who makes you feel stupid when you confusedly nod along and attempt to ask clarifying questions. Harry is much nicer about it. He simplifies terms for you while your mind drifts away to things much more interesting than the anatomy of axels and tires. For example, Harry's pink lips or the beautiful veins protruding from the backs of his hands.
You've gone to him with car problems before but mostly visit to hang out with him. It's never awkward since the breakup was mutual, and you are still on good terms. Plus, you find contentment in the routine of bringing him fast food and talking his ear off while he does the strenuous work.
And so what if you still fuck him on the down-low?
There's nothing wrong with having no strings attached, especially since he gives you heavenly sexual experiences every time. It's not like it's a weekly thing, either. It's just that whenever you cross paths with him, it always ends up with his body hovering over yours, his cross necklace dangling above your bare chest.
Unfortunately, you're not in the mood for that right now. The stress caused by your shitty car and having to probably pay a hefty amount of cash just to be able to safely drive anywhere has quickly turned your day sour.
As you duck your head to enter the garage, the smell of rubber and oil instantly permeates your senses. The plug-in air freshener on the wall is doing the absolute bare minimum. Soft bass creeps into your eardrums, a groovy R&B track playing from Harry's boombox sitting beside his reliable red toolbox. You grin and roll your eyes when you recognize the eminent growl of Christina Aguilera coming through the speakers. You're greeted with a song you'd never expect him to listen to whenever you visit.
Turning your head to the left, you spot Harry working under a beat-up vintage Cadillac. He's lying down on a roller with his knees bent, metal clinking from whatever he's fixing. The black skinny jeans he's wearing are faded, and he's not wearing any shoes for some risky reason, only white socks covering his feet.
