Fast car

First draft of a thing. Comments welcome.

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The jalopy, it broke down. Again. Then we tried to fix it. Well, we didn’t really try, we stood around the car twirling tools and talking. Oh, there’s a car, it has four wheels. Yes, I hear they often do. These cars, they whizz by, and we stand there and twirl. The spanner is a baton and I am his cheerleader.

So, after a while he notices I am standing with my handbag over my head. It will not balance without my hand, and I clutch at it, sweating as much from where the sun-heated leather presses itself to my forehead as from the natural heat that swirls around us.

Another car zips past, its windows tinted. It keeps the sun out, because it would be unfair for the passenger to tan in the heat just because she was trying to get a ride from point a to point b with a man. The windows are also wound up, and even though it’s 35 degrees you can see the fog the air conditioning has made on the windshield. I see all this in the two seconds it takes for the car to hum past us. To think, one Porsche tried to pick me up the other day and I said no.

He is still standing there, the toolbag is in his hand. He is looking at it and smiling at me. Damn it if I don’t smile back. My teeth spread themselves of their own accord, whore that they are, and even though there are sweat droplets on my face I feel a little thrill. I almost whoop for joy, I take a moment to lean toward his hand. Let me help him now, I know how to fix a punctured tyre.

Then he starts talking about the sky, that I should look at it. Isn’t it so blue?

Then he starts talking about how far we’ve come, that I should think about it. It’s not that far oh. Maybe we should walk back, he says, because this sun, it is very hot.

And I'd almost collected that toolbag from him.

The Lord in heaven is faithful. He delivers His own. I stare at the road I’ve driven on, and I look at the vehicle I was transported in. Big, a jeep. Black, powerful colour. Then when you step a little closer you see that the rear window is cracked. The side mirrors are broken, they hang off the sides of the car like disabled limbs.

I think of the beggars, the ones who flap their stumps on the road to beg for pieces of crumpled paper to be thrown their way. They don’t hang their arms like this car, they don’t sigh and stand by the side of the road with neatly lined spanners in a spiffy looking toolbag.

They don’t smile quite so … hmm. Maybe this his strolling back is not such a bad idea. Maybe he will hold my hand as we walk. Maybe he will talk to me again, about the sky, but I won’t look at it because the sun will blind my eyes, and then even when he smiles at me I wont be able to see it.

I start to put my bag down from shielding my face from the sun, I start to walk toward him, I start to smile back; maybe if I too, show my teeth, he will want to hold my hand.

But now, he is looking away. I think he bent over, to put the bag down. I walk to his side and I see he is bent over, but he bent over to examine the tyre! I can’t tell whether I’m excited or not. He wants to fix it; he’s really going to fix it! And then I’ll be the madam in the passenger seat that moves her chair back and puts her feet on the dashboard. Then I’ll use my hand to hold his hand – but my other hand will be holding the old newspaper because the air-conditioner is not working and someone will need to fan us both. I will be dedicated, I will fan us both so strongly that we will feel like it is ice cold.

I am smiling when he looks up and I have decided; I’m happy. This is all I wanted, for him to try. And anyway, if he cannot fix it I can help him; I know how to change a tyre. I know how to push a car, if it comes to that. But also, if he cannot fix it, there’s that walk he promised, and he will smile at me for being by his side. To think, one Porsche tried to pick me up the other day and I said no. I knew I was waiting for a big car, not that tiny cubicle that someone would have to fold over to crouch into. So the jeep needs a bit of patching, but it is comfortable, and I can sit down and look down at all the silly cars flashing their tinted windows at me and scoff in their faces.

He catches my eye and he smiles back and stands up, he dusts his hands, he has fixed it. He has fixed the car! He holds the door open and gives me his hand. He leads me to my seat. He asks me if it’s comfortable and I purr, he understands what I mean without my words and he moves the seat for me.

He walks round to his side and climbs in. He looks over at me and smiles. There’s nowhere I wouldn’t go in this car, I would change four tyres if I had to. He reaches over and squeezes my thigh with his strong, dusty hand, and the stain on my dress is a badge of honour: look how hard my man has been working.

He starts the car, he drives ten wonderful feet until it sputters to a stop. He climbs out, opens the bonnet and folds his arms. I don’t move, I know he will fix it too, my strong man. He walks over to my side and opens the door. I lean in for a kiss, to say sorry; to say, oh, how long until we’re on our way?

He reaches out his lovely hands and smiles his smile at me as he leads me down from the car. He walks with me to the bus stop and says, the sky…

What about the sky? I don’t understand. He tells me he can see the rain coming, he looks at me, he says, can’t you see it? As if there is something wrong with me, because I cannot see that the rain is coming from the corner of the Lord’s heavens. I look up into the sky, where he is pointing, and when I look back the sun has blinded me. I cannot see him.

The drops fall on my hands on the road home. To think, one Porsche tried to pick me up the other day and I said no.