The Mechanic
"His car keeps breaking down at her shop. She offers a payment plan he can't refuse—weekly visits until the bill is clear. The repairs take months. Neither of them wants them to end."
The first time was an accident.
Alternator died on Route 9, coasted into the first shop I saw. "Big Betty's Auto Repair"—hand-painted sign, gravel lot, the smell of oil and honest work.
Betty herself came out to meet me.
Two hundred and ninety pounds. Fifty-four years old. Coveralls unzipped to her navel, tank top underneath straining against curves that had no business in a garage.
"Alternator," she said before I could speak. "I can hear it from here."
"Can you fix it?"
"Honey, I can fix anything." She smiled. "Question is, can you pay for it?"
I couldn't.
Not immediately. The repair was eight hundred dollars. I had three hundred in my account.
"Payment plan," Betty offered, wiping her hands on a rag. "You come by every week. Work off the balance."
"Work how? I don't know anything about cars."
"Did I say anything about cars?" She stepped closer. Smelled like motor oil and something sweeter. "I've been running this shop alone for six years. Gets lonely. A man who shows up regular... that's worth something."
"You want me to—"
"I want you to visit." Her hand found my chest. "Once a week. Until we're square."
The first visit was awkward.
I showed up on Saturday. Betty closed the shop early. Led me to the apartment above the garage.
"I don't usually—" I started.
"Neither do I." She was already undressing. Coveralls pooling on the floor. "But you walked into my shop looking like a lost puppy, and I haven't been touched in two years."
"Two years?"
"Husband left. Customers don't look twice at a woman my size." She stood before me in just underwear—massive, beautiful, defiant. "You looked twice."
"I looked more than twice."
"I noticed." She pulled me toward the bed. "Now show me what that look means."
I went down on Betty for an hour.
She tasted like salt and want. Her thighs crushed my head while she gripped the headboard, cursing and praying in equal measure.
"Fuck—right there—don't you dare stop—"
I didn't stop.
She came three times before she let me up for air.
"That's fifty off your bill," she gasped. "At this rate, you'll be paid up by Christmas."
"What if I want to owe you longer?"
She laughed. "Then I'll find more things wrong with your car."
She found a lot wrong with my car.
Week two: brake pads needed replacing. Another three hundred.
Week three: transmission was "questionable." Five hundred more.
Week four: she just looked at me and said, "Timing belt. You're here through summer."
I didn't argue.
The visits became ritual.
Saturdays at noon. She'd close the shop. We'd go upstairs. I'd spend hours learning her body while she learned mine.
"You're getting better," she observed after month two. "More confident."
"Good teacher."
"Good student." She rolled onto her stomach. "Now. Let's see what else you've learned."
I took her from behind while thunderstorms rolled across the valley.
By month four, I wasn't keeping track of the bill.
Neither was she.
"You could just come by," she said one night. "Without the pretense."
"Where's the fun in that?"
"The fun is the same either way." She kissed me. "But I like that you keep coming back. Like you owe me something."
"I owe you everything." I meant it. "Before you, I didn't know what I wanted."
"And now?"
"Now I want this." I pulled her close. "Every Saturday. Forever."
One year later
I moved into the apartment above the garage.
Help her with the shop sometimes—not repairs, but paperwork, parts orders, customer service. She handles the mechanical stuff. I handle her.
"Your car broke down again," she says with a straight face when customers ask who I am.
"Still?"
"These things take time." She winks at me. "Might be here permanently."
Permanently sounds right.
The alternator works fine now.
Has for months.
But every Saturday, we still pretend there's something wrong. Something that needs fixing. Something that keeps me coming back.
"The engine's making a noise," I'll say.
"I'll have to inspect it thoroughly," she'll reply.
We'll go upstairs.
The inspection takes hours.
The bill keeps growing.
And neither of us ever wants to be paid up.