I parked my blue Camry and mustered my courage. I hate dealing with things like this, as a general rule. I had to get my brakes checked because the car was shaking when I braked hard. No big deal for most people, but I'm introverted and moody; I just wasn't in the mood for explaining what was going on with my car to some man who would probably look at me like I had no idea what I was talking about, talk down to me, and then extend his hand for my keys, stopping just short of rolling his eyes at my naivete.
Sometimes men at automotive places really have made me feel that way, which is extremely offensive because, most of the time, I know exactly what I'm talking about. I know cars, and I make it my personal business to know any car I own. In fact I hardly ever take a car for maintenance of any kind without already having an idea of what needs to be done to it. I'd say 90% of the time, I'm right. This time was no exception.
I'll admit I'm stubborn. You know how some people refuse to go to the doctor until they're on death's door? I'll take my car to someone else, but I hate having to do it. I hate when I come across something that I can't handle myself. I've helped change brake pads before, and I know how to bleed brakes... but I didn't really have the equipment or the time. Part of growing up, I guess, is learning to let other people help you out!
I was wearing a blue and white plaid sundress with a white, lace, cropped, short-sleeve jacket. My feet were clad in delicate, white sandals, and my fingernails and toenails were painted red. My hair was pulled up in a wavy ponytail, and silver hoops filled the holes in each of my earlobes. I carried a blue, fabric purse, slung over my right shoulder. As I walked through the door to Pros' Auto and Body, I reached up with My left hand to remove huge, "movie-star" sunglasses. I realized then that, if I wanted to look like I knew what I was talking about concerning my car, I had probably not dressed the part.
I looked up toward the desk and met the gaze of the man sitting on a stool behind it. He raised his bushy eyebrows and asked how he could help me. I explained that I needed my brake pads and rotors checked because my car was shaking when I braked hard, especially when braking at high speeds. I was pleased to find that he really listened to me. He nodded as I spoke. He repeated what I'd said back to me to clarify. He said it would take them about 30 minutes to get to my car, and I was glad to wait. I sat down in one of two chairs on either side of a small table stacked high with various magazines.
In the chair opposite mine sat a man wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt, green, khaki shorts and brown, leather sandals. He was balding and had very short, gray hair everywhere except the bald spot. I was surprised when the man behind the desk asked for my keys before even ten minutes had passed and sent someone from the shop out to get my car.
He stood outside the door, and I knew he was smoking, but I couldn't see him. I could smell him - he was smoking Marlboro Lights. I'd bet anything on it. I'm not a smoker, but I grew up around smokers, and something about that smell has always appealed to me. I think it's nostalgic.
I watched him as he walked back to the desk when he finished. Sure enough, he carried a pack of Marlboro Lights in his hand. He was wearing jeans and a work shirt with the name of the shop stitched on the left side of his chest, above the pocket. It was dark blue and worn. His jeans were a relaxed fit, and his legs were long. He wore glasses, which smoothed his ruggedness and made him look a little more intellectual. He had a full beard that was once blonde, but quickly growing gray. His hair was blonde as well, also spattered with white and gray. Just above his forehead, his hair was thinning. His skin was tan, and his eyes were so blue that I could see their color from across the room when he looked at me. He wasn't bad looking at all; I'd guess he was around 55 years old.
After sitting on his stool again, he turned to his computer and began entering information about my car. He verified the make, model and year, and then he asked me if it was LE, XLE... I answered twice, but he couldn't understand me. I tried again, speaking louder this time and looking straight at him as I spoke. He heard me that time, and he told me that being around loud machines all his life had damaged his hearing. I nodded and indicated that I didn't mind repeating myself for him.
The man opposite me, who struck me as a man who probably didn't know how to open the hood of his car, much less his way around beneath it, looked at the man behind the desk and said, "Losing your hearing, huh? Guess you are about a hundred now!" His voice did not convey a manly presence. I'm biased, I know. I'm accustomed to and attracted to rugged, deep-voiced, capable men, usually from the country, who know a thing or two about fixing... well, just about anything. The man behind the desk fit this picture. The man insulting him didn't! I wanted to speak up and defend him. He didn't look anywhere near 100 to me; he looked capable and sexy, in his own rugged, weathered way.
Just then a man from the shop, who reminded me of Jerry Garcia, stuck his head inside the door and said, "Hey, Bill..." I don't really remember what else he said; I just caught that the man behind the desk was named Bill. Bill started to follow him out the door.
As he left he looked at the other man and responded, "No, I'm not quite THAT old yet." When he turned away from the man and toward the door, his gaze lingered on me just a moment. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd winked, but he didn't. He walked out the door. When he came back, he had keys for my fellow customer. When he left Bill and I were alone.
I expected Bill to bury himself in busy work at his computer, but instead he looked up toward me. He asked me how I got so many miles on my car, what I did for a living, when I'd start my new job, where I'd just finished school... question after question. He told me about all of the vehicles he owned and which manufacturers he thought made the best automobiles. Foreign makes, he agreed with me - Toyota and Honda. Domestic, he favored Chevrolet. I found myself hanging on his words; I respected his opinion!
Bill excused himself to the restroom just before a new customer walked inside. I honestly wanted the man to leave so he wouldn't interrupt my conversation with Bill! I told him Bill was in the restroom, and he walked outside to talk to someone else from the shop. I got the idea that he was a regular customer.
I was quite enamored with Bill - his base of knowledge, his way of talking, how he made me feel like he valued my input and opinion. He was a great conversationalist and drew me out of my shell easily. It was awhile before he returned from the restroom, which was a room off of the waiting area, separated from me only by ten feet of space and a metal door.
Finally, I heard him wash his hands, and the door knob turned. I quickly arranged myself. I checked to make sure that I was showing some cleavage but no bra fabric. I flattened the fabric of my skirt against my knees and re-crossed my ankles. I looked down at my phone and pretended to be doing something very important - my fall-back when I'm not quite sure what to do!
Bill walked past me out into the shop, spoke with someone briefly and came back inside. Then he squatted down right beside me. I thought maybe he got so close so he could hear me better; my voice is naturally very soft. I could feel his breath as he spoke to me. His knuckles barely grazed my right knee. Without thinking about it, I held my breath while he began to speak.
He said that he thought I didn't quite need new rotors yet. They'd probably turn them and give me new brake pads. The left was more worn than the right. He said they'd let him know for sure shortly. The whole time he spoke, I struggled to pay attention. My body wanted me to focus on his nearness, the grazing touch of his rough knuckles, and the light scent of Marlboro mixed with an earthy, yet clean smell - a fragrance uniquely him.
I looked into his very blue eyes while he spoke and wondered if he was thinking about anything besides what he told me about my car. Did thoughts like mine run through his head too? Could he smell the lightly fragrant oil I sprayed on legs after showering? Was he awed by the bright green of my eyes the way I admired his striking blue? Had he noticed that I'd forgotten to breathe?
I nodded, said something appropriate in response, and thanked him. I expected him to rise and return immediately to his desk, but he lingered. "Do you, uh..." He seemed to be struggling for something, anything to say to keep him there beside my legs, at least I secretly hoped that's what he was doing. "Do you want a lukewarm bottle of water?" A lukewarm bottle of water? Best pick-up line ever.
"Sure, I like water," I responded. He traipsed back behind his desk, bent forward and grabbed a bottle from behind it, and walked back my way. He wiped his hand on his pants before turning the cap for me. He extended the bottle in one hand and the cap in the other. I reached out and took them both, and when our hands touched, I felt electricity - a tingle running from my brain down my spine to settle in my crotch. I was going to leave a wet spot on this man's chair when he'd barely touched me, and he was easily old enough to be my father! What had gotten into me?
Instead of returned to his desk, he leaned against the wall by the door to the shop, not five feet from me. He pretended to look out and watch the guys working periodically, but his gaze always returned to me shortly. He asked if I'd planted a garden this year, if I usually did, if I had any other vehicles... He played it cool, continuing to glance between my and the shop.
I knew they were going to be done with my car soon, but I didn't want to leave Bill. I could have sat there talking to him all day. While we talked I drained the bottle of water. During a lull in conversation, I realized I really needed to pee. I excused myself, crossed to the restroom and locked myself inside. I quickly dropped my demure, beige panties (definitely not my sexiest) and had a seat. I wondered if Bill sat in the same spot earlier, but I shook my head and pushed that thought aside. I didn't want to think about him taking a dump!
When I finished I turned to find the tissue so I could wipe, and I found that the roll had two, TWO, tiny little squares left. Wow. I looked for paper towels. No paper towels, just a hand dryer. Drip dry? Strangely at that precise moment, I heard Bill's voice just outside the door. "You oughta be ready in ten minutes..." Was he talking to me? Awkward... and strange.
I said, "Oh... okay!" And I thought he'd go away, but instead I heard light a knock at the door.
