Summer Suds
"She works summers at her uncle's car wash in Southall. He's the customer who comes every Saturday—same dusty car, same lingering looks. The day the hose breaks and soaks them both, they stop pretending they're strangers."
Every Saturday, he comes.
Same car—an old BMW that's always dusty. Same time—3 PM when the rush slows. Same order—full wash, extra wax.
Same look at me when he thinks I'm not watching.
"Your boyfriend's here," my cousin teases.
"He's not my boyfriend."
"He's something."
He's something I don't have a name for.
I've been working this car wash for two summers.
Saving for university. Pretending I don't mind the heat, the suds, the men who think "car wash girl" means "available."
Yusuf is different.
He never comments on my body. Never makes jokes. Just watches me work like I'm fascinating.
"You missed a spot," he says one Saturday, pointing at his bumper.
"Where?"
"Right there." He gets out of the car. "Let me show you."
He's close now. Too close. His hand points to a spot I definitely cleaned.
"I don't see it."
"Look harder."
The hose breaks.
Water everywhere—on his car, on me, on him. We're both soaked in seconds.
"Sorry!" I grab for the valve. "Sorry, it just—"
"Stop apologizing." He's laughing. "I needed to cool down anyway."
"You're soaked."
"So are you." His eyes travel down my wet shirt. Then snap back up. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine."
"It's not." He runs a hand through his wet hair. "I've been coming here every Saturday for two months trying to work up the nerve to ask you to coffee. And now I'm staring at you like a creep."
"You've been trying to ask me out?"
"Every Saturday." He shrugs helplessly. "Turns out I'm a coward."
"Coffee," I say.
"What?"
"You're asking. I'm answering." I squeeze water from my hair. "Coffee sounds good."
"Really?"
"You've washed your car twelve times in two months. Either you're very dirty or very interested." I smile. "I'm hoping interested."
"Very interested." He grins. "Saturday okay?"
"You're already here on Saturdays."
"After the car wash, then." He gets back in his now-soaked car. "I'll pick you up."
He picks me up in his clean, dry car.
We get coffee that turns into dinner that turns into walking along the canal until midnight.
"I've wanted to do this since the first time I saw you," he admits.
"What stopped you?"
"Fear of rejection. Fear of being that guy who bothers women at work." He looks at me. "Fear that someone like you wouldn't want someone like me."
"Someone like me?"
"Beautiful. Smart. Ambitious." He lists it like facts. "You're going to be someone. I'm just a guy with a dusty car."
"You're the guy who came back every Saturday." I take his hand. "That's more than most people do."
The summer heats up.
So do we.
In the back of his car—the one I've washed a dozen times. In the supply room at the car wash when my uncle's away. Everywhere we can find privacy.
"Yusuf—"
"You're everything—" He pushes deeper. "You've been everything since I first saw you."
"Then show me."
He shows me.
All summer long.
September comes.
I leave for university. He stays to work.
"Long distance?" he asks.
"We can try."
"I don't want to try." He pulls me close. "I want to succeed."
We succeed.
Through university. Through his promotion. Through everything that tried to pull us apart.
"Remember when we met?" he asks, years later.
"You had a dusty car."
"You had a broken hose."
"Best summer job I ever had."
"Best Saturday ritual I ever started."
We laugh.
And the car stays clean now.
But the memories stay dirty.
In the best way.