The Mechanic

-Chapter Eleven-

Location: Central

She's been here all morning. Not engaging in conversation, not bothering me. Not playing music. Just being.

And I'm not entirely sure why.

I've been tinkering. Not on the piano, but on my motorcycle, trying to resurrect it after the latest break down and that crash...

I rub the back of my head, considering. Stupid thing. Maybe I should just get rid of it. After that last accident on it almost three months ago, I had to wrestle myself into even considering touching it.

I drop a wrench through the wiry frame and reach through a gap to reclaim it, glancing over at Femi.

She's sitting on top of my high, cabinet toolbox, legs dangling, head bent as she goes through the book of poems. She's been sifting through them for hours. Picking up pieces of discarded manuals, writing her own poems in grease with her fingertips, perhaps.

But she hasn't said a word to me. She just showed up, helped herself to my life, and plopped down in my shop like she owned the place.

Which she does, if I was to get specific. She owns most of me, so she owns most of it. I gave it to her willingly. I just want her to be comfortable.

It is hard to tell myself that after yesterday, though. I shouldn't have asked her for that kiss. I'm an idiot. It was selfish. She didn't want it, and still, I asked.

Goodness, get with the program, Paris.

Now, it's still what she's doing. Painting, maybe. Writing. Reading.

Not talking to me.

Though to be fair, I haven't tried to talk to her, either. She doesn't seem open to it, at the moment. She's so quiet.

For a moment, I try to lose myself in the process of loosening a bolt that holds the very crumpled wheel onto the suspension. It doesn't exactly seem very likely to be able to do, though. I mean... what is work compared to women?

Or, this woman. Because that's what she is, now. She's not a little girl anymore. Because I'll admit, five years ago, we were kids. We were stupid. We believed for so much, and there was nothing too far away.

We were beautiful. Our minds were the most vibrantly flawless things.

Hers was, anyway. Mine has improved since then, and it's alright. But it will never be as free and sweet as hers was.

I glance up at her and drop my wrench again.

This time, the clanging draws her attention, and she looks up, her hair an utter and complete mess, eyes full of thoughts.

I try to smile, showing my teeth in a display of sheepish embarrassment. I don't know why I'm embarrassed. Maybe it's the way her eyes seem to bore holes in my calm.

"Hi," I say, looking down quickly as I retrieve the tool. My hands shake, but I play it cool, looking up to smile at her again.

She smiles a tiny smile back. "Hey."

"It's been years," I chuckle, not looking up.

"I know, right? I hardly recognized you when I walked in this morning. You look so different from last week."

"I think it's that I haven't shaved," I muse, brushing a hand across my face. It hasn't been that long, honestly. A few days, maybe. But really. Facial hair is such a stupid bother. What's the point?

"It looks good, though." She looks back down to the book in her lap, swinging her bare legs. She ditched the black skinny jeans in favor of some shorts that look a lot like they came from Elena. The jacket is still there, though, and it's becoming really grungy looking.