There was no one in line at the flat fix, but Angie rolled her eyes and sighed anyway.
“We’re going to miss this wedding,” she muttered, as the car creaked and rocked in Kay’s wake.
I mmmed as neutrally as I could, opening my own door to the July morning. It was only 8 am, and the wedding was tomorrow, but I knew that Angie had her own definitions of “on time” and “late.” I swung out of the car, mumbling something about helping, as if I could do anything.
It was only 8 am, but the coolness of morning was already melting into a shimmery haze of high summer heat on the grey pavement. I let it seep into my feet, up my legs, accelerated by the thunder of the trains passing overhead. I watched them scream along, throwing sparks at the curve in the track.
“Hold this,” he said, interrupting my meditative observations with a tire iron. I turned toward the voice, looking almost directly into his shining, crinkled eyes, and I felt my practiced mask of indifference crack into a smile.
He always made me smile, even when the walls were coming down, even when I wanted to slam every door between us and keep him out, even when he had stirred the ocean inside me to a gale.
He was named Lorenzo after the grandfather who opened the shop, Lorenzo’s Flat Fix, and he told me how people outside the neighborhood always assumed because he was Lorenzo and he was Puerto Rican that he must have taken over for some old Italian family, because that’s what people who don’t know the Bronx think about the Bronx. I held the iron while he jacked the car up, Angie standing in the shade of the train and scowling at us as she counted minutes and ran them through her etiquette calculator. After a few minutes, I interrupted his work.
“You don’t need this at all, do you?” I nudged his arm with the tire iron and he laughed.
“Damn, you’re good,” he said, squeezing his eyes in that round-faced smile. “You need a job?”
I told him about teaching, 3 years in and wondering if this was for me. Kay and Angie were out of earshot but still I leaned closer, like a stem bending toward the sun, when I talked about how hard it could be, that I didn’t know if I could do this for years and years. He finished with the tire and I was still talking, my hands beginning to flutter and fly around me, between us. He watched one of them sweep and fall, caught it at the wrist gently. I didn’t pull away. I watched his face as he frowned at my palm.
“Have you always had this?” he asked, and I turned into the open parenthesis of his body to see what he meant. He pressed a fingertip to the skin near the center of my palm. “Here. That’s you teaching in 10 years.” I laughed, looking up to find his face solemn, still turned to my palm. “And here,” he continued, touching a spot in the pad of my thumb. He looked up into my eyes. “That’s us.”
“We’re going to miss this wedding,” she muttered, as the car creaked and rocked in Kay’s wake.
I mmmed as neutrally as I could, opening my own door to the July morning. It was only 8 am, and the wedding was tomorrow, but I knew that Angie had her own definitions of “on time” and “late.” I swung out of the car, mumbling something about helping, as if I could do anything.
It was only 8 am, but the coolness of morning was already melting into a shimmery haze of high summer heat on the grey pavement. I let it seep into my feet, up my legs, accelerated by the thunder of the trains passing overhead. I watched them scream along, throwing sparks at the curve in the track.
“Hold this,” he said, interrupting my meditative observations with a tire iron. I turned toward the voice, looking almost directly into his shining, crinkled eyes, and I felt my practiced mask of indifference crack into a smile.
He always made me smile, even when the walls were coming down, even when I wanted to slam every door between us and keep him out, even when he had stirred the ocean inside me to a gale.
He was named Lorenzo after the grandfather who opened the shop, Lorenzo’s Flat Fix, and he told me how people outside the neighborhood always assumed because he was Lorenzo and he was Puerto Rican that he must have taken over for some old Italian family, because that’s what people who don’t know the Bronx think about the Bronx. I held the iron while he jacked the car up, Angie standing in the shade of the train and scowling at us as she counted minutes and ran them through her etiquette calculator. After a few minutes, I interrupted his work.
“You don’t need this at all, do you?” I nudged his arm with the tire iron and he laughed.
“Damn, you’re good,” he said, squeezing his eyes in that round-faced smile. “You need a job?”
I told him about teaching, 3 years in and wondering if this was for me. Kay and Angie were out of earshot but still I leaned closer, like a stem bending toward the sun, when I talked about how hard it could be, that I didn’t know if I could do this for years and years. He finished with the tire and I was still talking, my hands beginning to flutter and fly around me, between us. He watched one of them sweep and fall, caught it at the wrist gently. I didn’t pull away. I watched his face as he frowned at my palm.
“Have you always had this?” he asked, and I turned into the open parenthesis of his body to see what he meant. He pressed a fingertip to the skin near the center of my palm. “Here. That’s you teaching in 10 years.” I laughed, looking up to find his face solemn, still turned to my palm. “And here,” he continued, touching a spot in the pad of my thumb. He looked up into my eyes. “That’s us.”