The Mechanics of Us

Part 2: The Cyborg

Chapter 20

My breath hitches, and my mind goes completely blank. There are no words that can come to mind nor any signals to allow me to speak. I should say something, but I am withdrawn from reality. However, I can sense the uncomfortable silence grow, and I start to talk, but instead, I sound like a broken record. The audio that leaves my mouth is choppy, slightly static, and completely incoherent. My cheeks have to be flame red by now and not because of the sun. My heart beats rapidly in my chest, and my eyes widen. I can almost see myself standing there, stunned by this gorgeous woman who stands before me.

The silence finally breaks when I hear my father, in his monotone and distant tone, say, "This is Betes. She has a uh... machinery problem she needs fixing. I've been told you do this sort of repairs."

I stare up at him; I hate his voice. I remember when it used to be light and filled with joy. There wasn't a time where he wouldn't crack a joke. Now he rarely smiles, and his voice now sends painful shocks along my spine.

"Yea?" the mechanic sways over and scans me up and down, and then her eyes rest on my hand.

"Old model, but still in fairly mint condition," she scrutinizes. I keep an eye on her as she reaches out to take my disfigured hand, but I jolt back promptly and recede behind the surgeon. The mechanic cocks an eyebrow but backs away with her hands up.

"I can fix it. Going to cost you though" she draws out a small leather-bound notebook from her overall pocket, it has scribbles etched into the cover with numbers burned into the spine. I squint my eyes, trying to decipher what they were, but my peering eyes must have been noticeable since she turns her back towards me.

"How much?" the surgeon asks.

"3,000 give or take a hundred. It depends on the extent of the damage."

"I can cover it" he shoots my father with a piercing glare and rapidly shakes his head. The surgeon has money to spare. My family, not so much. I'm sorry.

"Come on then," the mechanic gives me once over and turns on her heels, digging up a cloud of dirt and rumble. I am unsure why, but I am fascinated with her. The way she carries herself perhaps, and there is something about her that seems... familiar.

I wave over to my father and then to the surgeon, my attention switching between the two. The surgeon gestures with his hand for me to follow her; I nod and begin to jog after the mechanic, leaving my father and surgeon to their own despises.

***

I've only had one crush in my life, and it was a very long time ago. She was in my eighth grade chemistry class. I can picture her so vividly in my head. Her golden amber locks of hair that draped across her face like lace curtains. Her small frame was fragile but held so much strength and her intelligence was unparalleled. I knew I was smart at the time, but she might have been more intelligent than I was. Yet, what took my breath away was when she smiled the world seemed to stop and stare. It was as if her smile was the only thing that could give others happiness because it was contagious too. Whenever she smiled, I couldn't help but do the same, and others experienced the same effect.

I tried to ask her to the middle school formal, and I wrote her a note and everything. But she rejected me because she didn't feel the same and thought I was weird. Understandable. Ever since then, I have not had my luck with relationships and chose not to get caught up on such trivial things. Also, it could put them and me at risk, and the last thing I want to be a burden on someone.

***

The mechanic has a very well organized desk. Her screwdrivers, hammers, wires, wrenches, nails, other tools I did not know the name for, all spread out in a row starting from the smallest to largest. The mechanic stands with her feet shoulder-width apart, blocking my view of the workspace. Her arms crossed in front of her chest, her fingers wrapping around her bicep tightly, exposing the defined musculature, and she squinted at the tools displayed in front of her a small crease forming in between her furrowed brows. I watch as she meticulously reaches out and with the tips of her fingers and grabs the various tools, wires, and screws.