The Mechanics of Us

Chapter 22

I have seen the movies of how girls get ready for dates. They go through their entire closet, rip apart their drawers, try on millions of outfits. I always thought that was a movie trope, and no girl would ever do that. Yet low and behold, here I am, in my room, surrounded by heaps of clothing, trying on my tenth outfit, and still not sure what to wear.

I purse my lips and make an incoherent squeal out of frustration. I run my fingers through my hair and tug at the ends. I scrutinize myself in the mirror and give myself a look of discerning. I hear my phone ping, and I reach in my back pocket to check to see what it was about. Crap. It is an alarm. I have thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to get ready. That's only 1800 seconds. I frantically start to rummage around for something, anything to wear that will make me remotely attractive. I raid my closet and dig past old dresses, some jackets I have never worn, some random belts.

An Exasperated and loud, "Yes!" echoes in my room. The outfit laid out on my bed was perfect; it was composed of black overalls, pants length, and a black and white striped short sleeve shirt to go underneath. Without another second to spare, I throw the clothes on and critique myself in the mirror; there appeared to be nothing too horrible about the way I looked. I just need to do makeup, brush my hair out quickly, and then I should be good to go.

"Okay," I mouth and rush into the bathroom, flick on the light, and in a frenzy, comb my rat nest of hair. Thankfully the heat of the day has subsided so the frizz is much more manageable. Yet, I'm not sure how to do makeup, but I know the gist and do the simple mascara and cover up any blemishes. My phone pings again. The word "Here!" glows on my screen.

"Oh, so now you decide to text-" I grumble, and then with one last look over, I grab my purse and head out.

The summer days were long, which made the night and days blend. As I exit the building, the sky is a radiant monarch orange that bleeds into a deep violet as it touches the horizon that rests over the tops of the city's buildings. I live for those moments. For when the world seems to be infinite.

The clinking of belt buckles causes me to shift my gaze, and I see the mechanic standing before me wearing straight cuffed jeans, a t-shirt with planets and moons on it, and a leather jacket. I squint my eyes and spot a red helmet in the crook of her arm and held in between her fingers is a pair of black reflective sunglasses.

"Hey, Betes," her voice is steady and cheerful.

"Hi," I wave. I can feel the uneasy tension between us.

"Ready for an epic night?" she asks, her cocky grin flashing me.

"I guess so..." I scan the streets around us for any pedestrians or cars. When there appears to be a brief vacancy of space, I cautiously approach her. My heart is beating so loudly in my ears. My hands are sweaty and clammy. My mind is racing with thoughts. I remind myself why I am on this "date" if you can even call it such. It is to determine if she is a cyborg. Like me. Like the surgeon. This is all logical. The emotions I am experiencing are rational. Yes.

"Here," her bowed arm extends, and I take the red helmet and flip it over in my hands.

"What's this for?" my brows furrow as my fingers glide across the sleek coating and then settle on the chin strap.

"Put it on; we are going on a little adventure" She struts over to a shining black and red motorcycle. It's in flawless condition, barely any scratches, the leather seat coverings showing no signs of fading, and the tread on the wheels still shows distinct grooves. The mechanic admires her bike for a brief second, her hand caressing the seat, then working her way up to the handlebars where she ropes her fingers around them. She kicks a leg over and straddles the bike, then skillfully she grabs a black helmet that rests on the side of one handlebar and clicks it into place around her chin. The mechanic keeps a straight face as she kicks the stand up, turns the keys, and revs the engine causing a loud purr to fill the silent streets.