Detroit Mechanic
"She fixes cars in Hamtramck—a thick ebony divorced Somali woman who learned engines from her brothers. When his car needs work, she gets under the hood. Some repairs require test drives."
Amira's Auto is the only female-owned shop in Hamtramck.
She learned from her brothers in Mogadishu, then perfected her craft in Detroit. If it has an engine, she can fix it.
My car makes a terrifying noise.
"Ilaahay—what have you done to this car?" She peers under the hood. Fifty-two years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of mechanical expertise. Ebony skin, grease-stained coveralls, competence radiating from every pore.
"I don't know. It just started."
"Transmission issue. Leave it with me."
"How long?"
"Two days. Maybe three." She wipes her hands. "You'll live."
I come to check on my car.
More than necessary. She notices.
"It's not done yet." She doesn't look up from under another vehicle.
"I know. Just wanted to see the progress."
"The progress is progress." She slides out. "You anxious about something?"
"Maybe."
"About the car?"
"About the mechanic."
She laughs.
Genuine, surprised, the sound echoing through the garage.
"Waas—I'm covered in grease. I smell like motor oil. I'm fifty-two years old."
"You're the most capable person I've ever seen."
"Capable doesn't mean—"
"Attractive. I know. But it is. To me."
She studies me with those mechanic's eyes—the ones that diagnose problems at a glance.
"Your car's done tomorrow. Come at seven."
I arrive at seven.
The shop is closed. She's waiting alone.
"Your transmission was worse than I thought," she says. "I fixed it anyway."
"How much do I owe you?"
"We'll figure that out." She locks the door behind me. "First—tell me why you keep coming back."
"Because watching you work is like watching art."
"Waas."
"Because your confidence is magnetic."
"Waas."
"Because I can't stop thinking about you."
She's quiet for a long moment.
"My husband couldn't handle a woman who fixed cars. Said it wasn't feminine." She looks at her grease-stained hands. "Nine years since he left. Nine years of being alone in this garage."
"You're not alone now."
I worship the mechanic.
Among engine parts and tools. Her body is a machine I want to understand—ebony curves, strong arms, hands that fix everything.
"Nine years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've fixed everyone else's problems—"
"Let me fix yours."
I lay her on a clean workbench.
Her body is engineering—heavy breasts, solid belly, powerful thighs. Built for work and pleasure.
I spread her thick thighs.
Work on her engine.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—nine years of mechanical celibacy breaking. Her strong hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I tune her until she purrs. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill my tank—"
I strip. She watches with expert eyes.
"Subhanallah—well-equipped."
"Runs smooth."
I push inside the mechanic.
She screams.
"So full—" Her powerful legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I drive into her.
Her body shakes among the tools. Grease and sweat mix on our skin. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Complete the job—"
I finish inside her.
We lie on the cool garage floor.
"Your car's fixed," she murmurs.
"I might need more repairs soon."
"Wallahi?" She laughs. "Suspicious."
"Very suspicious. Might need to bring it in every day."
One Year Later
My car runs perfectly.
I bring it in anyway.
"Macaan," she moans, oil-stained fingers gripping the workbench. "My best customer."
The mechanic who fixes everything.
The woman who finally let herself be tuned up.
Running smooth together.