Itty Bitty Stories

Fixing My Car And Our Relationship

I can agree that it’s a pretty amusing sight; your ex-girlfriend, sitting on top of a shitty looking car, stranded on the side of a highway at 6 in the morning. In fact, it’s a highly amusing sight.

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Fixing My Car And Our Relationship

“Come on, not now!”

I smack my steering wheel repeatedly, muttering a colorful vocabulary as I do so. In return, my car makes some kind of splotting noise. I veer off the highway and to the side so I don’t get into an accident. I clunk my head onto the wheel, gripping it so hard I’m afraid it might break off.

“Shitty piece of shit!” I screech, kicking my car door open and slamming it shut. I pace on the side of the highway for a few moments, arms on my forehead. All I have to survive with is a phone on 5% battery, a pack of bubblegum, a month old unopened water bottle, a couple of dollars in change, and a hair tie.

There’s no way I’m calling a tow truck. Besides, they’ll probably put me on hold or something like that and poof! There goes my battery. But the only person that I know who can fix a car is…

No. Just no.

I refuse to call him. I will do whatever in my power to not call him. I can handle this myself. Yeah! I’ll be able to fix my car myself. Getting myself pumped up, I open up the hood of my car. Other vehicles whir past me, mocking me. As if to say, ‘ha! I have a car and you don’t!’

Well, I open that baby up and guess what? I can’t name one god damn thing that’s in there. My smile and pumped up attitude falters as I examine the thing. There’s no way to tell what’s broken, what’s not, and what’s what.

Guess who I’m calling?

(())

“Jesse.”

He smirks at my cold greeting. I can agree that it’s a pretty amusing sight; your ex-girlfriend, sitting on top of a shitty looking car, stranded on the side of a highway at 6 in the morning. In fact, it’s a highly amusing sight.

“Aubree.” His greeting is not as cold as mine, held together by pieces of amusement. He slowly uncrosses his arms, taking long steps over to my troubled car. A black, plain t shirt hangs loosely off his chest and matches with some tan boots and jeans.

It’s quiet for a few moments as his eyes dart back and forth. First to the car, then to me sitting on top of it, swinging my legs off the side. I can’t help the almost awkward atmosphere around us. I was the one who broke up with him, after all. It should be awkward.

We broke up a couple of months ago, actually. I broke up with him because I wanted to move back home. I’m not a fan of long distant relationships because they don’t ever work out. Moving back home sounded like a good idea at the time. I had family, I would be able to find a job, the whole shebang. He didn’t want me to go, had a big fight, I got mad, broke up with him, stormed out of apartment. A week later I got my stuff and left.