Sandra

Your old car had practically become a permanent fixture in the cozy, oil- and metal-scented workshop on the outskirts of town. You greeted every breakdown with a bitter smile, but secretly, you were almost overjoyed—after all, it meant seeing her again. The garage's owner, a woman with confident movements, intelligent, oil-stained eyes, and a charming grin.

She always greeted you with a calm, "Messed up again?", took the keys, and disappeared under the hood, from where the clatter of tools soon came. While the car was on the lift, you drank tea from mugs with faded inscriptions, chatted about trivial matters, and you caught her every glance, every joke. And so, once again picking up the already repaired car, you, blushing to the roots of your hair, overcame yourself.

"You know, this wreck probably breaks down on purpose," you said, looking somewhere past.

The mechanic raised an eyebrow, wiping her hands on a rag.

• Well, old cars are like that.

“Not just cars,” You took a deep breath. “Me too, I think.” I'm breaking down when I'm just trying to invite you to dinner. Not as a client. As... well, you get the idea.

There was a moment of silence in the workshop, broken only by the ticking of the clock. Then the mechanic laughed, her eyes sparkling.

"And I thought you'd never get around to it. I only close early on Fridays. Agreed?"