“Knock it off,” I say to myself. I stand and shake it off and go find one of my girly magazines.
But first a shower. I turn on the water.
Cold.
He’s waiting by my bike at ten sharp.
Another collared shirt, with maroon and white stripes, tucked into gray slacks. His hair is combed behind his ears, not a curl out of place, and his shoes shine.
“What’s so funny?” He frowns at me as I approach.
“You know you’re just gonna get dirty, right?”
He looks down at himself and frowns deeper, that endearing blush appearing once more. My heart hiccups.
I shake my head. “It’s cool, though. I guess I should’ve told you. I haven’t cleaned the garage in ages.”
“Garage?”
“Yeah.” I fasten the snaps on my leather jacket, bought and paid for at the fanciest store downtown. It’s genuine and a deep ebony and if there was anyone that needed to know, I’d request they make sure I’m buried in it. “Did you think you were going to do it out here?” I gesture around us. “See a hose anywhere?”
He looks. “Well, no. But —”
“Come on.” I go around to the street side and mount my bike.
I bought the Triumph off some asshole in the neighboring county. He had two, brand new. One was red, and I hate red. He really wanted to unload the red one, though, so I haggled and bargained until I bought it for fifty clams off the asking price. I painted it black the following week. I wanted something that wasn’t too cumbersome. At least until I can move out to the country, just a log cabin and some records, and I’ll be golden. The thudding of horses hooves fading into oblivion at last.
I cut on the engine, push up the kick with my heel, and look over at him. He’s chewing on his bottom lip, looking like he might just run on back to his auntie’s.
I try to gather up some sympathy for him. He’s got to be lonely. There’s no one around his age in this neighborhood. Or mine for that matter. Or—scratch that—no one my age and also a forever bachelor because there’s no way he can cure the sickness in his heart. And marrying some dame to quell the thirst will only make me hungry. I can’t be so low as to fool someone I’ll never love.
“Hop on,” I say to him. There’s just enough room on the seat behind me, and he’ll be the first ever to ride with me. On this bike anyway.
“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before,” he says warily.
“Just hop on and hold on.” I rev the engine and try to give him a reassuring smile.
And then he gets on, and I feel the heft of him on the seat behind me. There’s a handlebar behind him to grip, but I feel his hesitant hands on either side of my waist. Before I can think about it too much, I hit the gas and we’re off, his grip tightening as we speed away.
The garage is only a couple of miles from my apartment, but it seems to take longer than usual. My awareness of him behind me is enhanced with every bump and turn, his thighs touching, his hands gripping tight, and I wonder things, I think things that should be left in my Pandora’s box of shame. At an intersection, I stop short— unnecessarily—so his chest bumps against my back. He’s hard under that thin frame, and I could’ve let him hide in shadows, watching me for all time, if he’d just touch me like this. Just sometimes. Just like this. It’s all I need.
And it’s all I can ever have.
I snap the padlock open and lift the door.
Inside is the baby blue Impala I’ve been repairing for this ass who needs it for his beauty queen daughter to sit in. She’s Queen of the Dogwood Festival at the high school. There’s a joke in there somewhere that I’m still working on. But I’ve got the thing like, maybe half done. And then there’s the 1924 Rolls Royce I’ve been restoring on the side for this rich guy. Seriously, that square’s really got the dough. The Royce is just one of six he’s got in a garage I could only dream of.
I go inside to the workstation and take off my jacket, hang it up. The kid’s standing just outside in the sun, squinting into the dim garage as if he’s looking for something in particular. I cut on the overhead light and start gathering up some polish and rags.
“What’s your name?” I call over to him.
He takes a step inside, takes his hands out of his pockets, then puts them back in. “My whole name is Paul Timothy, but I just go by Paul. Not my middle name. Not unless it’s something official. So, you can just call me Paul.”
“Paul?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.Paul.” I stick some brushes in a bucket with the other junk and hand it over to him. “Have at it, pal.”
