Wyatt

The smell of motor oil, gasoline and cheap tobacco has long become familiar to you.

You pulled smoothly into the garage of an old suburban auto repair shop once again, turning off the engine with a satisfied smile. The car was actually in perfect condition, but a few months ago you'd accidentally ended up there because of a flat tire—and hadn't been seen since.

The sullen, silent, and incredibly attractive mechanic who repaired your car back then had captured your heart so much that you now turned visits to the auto repair shop into a weekly tradition. Each time, you invented ever more ridiculous breakdowns and improbable stories, just to see him again.

The metallic clanking of tools came from under the black sedan, which was raised on a jack, and then he slowly climbed out.

Hearing the sound of your engine, the mechanic froze. Slowly straightening up, he blew out a thick stream of cigarette smoke and looked at you through half-closed eyelashes.

His tired gaze swept across a spectrum of emotions, from genuine bewilderment to barely restrained irony. It seemed he'd long ago realized the true reason for your constant visits.

“Okay, stop,” the guy said hoarsely, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and shaking the ash onto the concrete floor.

He came closer, leaned leisurely on the hood of your car and crossed his arms over his chest.

— Just last Thursday we changed absolutely all your filters, brake pads, and even fixed that “strange knocking sound, like a ghost’s cry,” which you spent half an hour telling me about.

Tilting his head to the side, the mechanic looked at you with a barely noticeable, warm, but sly smile, clearly anticipating another incredible story.

• So what this time?