BY IRENE GOLAS
This story was previously published in Whispered Words: An Anthology of Outstanding Prose from the Writers’ Community of Durham Region Competition, 2011. Copyright is held by the author.
FRANKIE WAS trouble. Knew it the minute he walked in and gave me one of those looks that opens you right up and says I’ve got your number. Should’ve just poured his coffee and gone back to wiping tables, but Frankie was hot.
I’d watched him from the diner all week, this new apprentice at Lou’s garage — no T-shirt, pants riding low, the way he hoisted those tires. So I let him chat me up as he leaned against the counter, muscles hard and sweaty, daring me with his eyes.
That night we were at the beach, a bottle of rye beside us. I was at a fever pitch, Frankie’s mouth and hands all over me, the smell of grease and oil still faintly on him.
I died twice that night — once in his arms, later on the road. Frankie was driving fast, one hand on the wheel. Pulled me closer for another kiss, and then a tire caught the gravel and we were skidding and spinning.
I’m over Frankie now, at least the sex, but I still watch him at the garage. Remember how he walked away without a scratch. I watch him work on the guts of broken cars. Study his every move, the tools he uses. Listen to his grease monkey’s talk.
Someday when he’s driving again, I’ll be ready. I’ll fix his brake lines for him. Put my hand on the wheel, whisper his name as he takes a certain curve too fast.