She learned to fix engines because her dad never taught her. He taught her instead.
A woman in a garage. A man with patient hands. The engine was the excuse. The proximity was the reason.
My car died on a Thursday.
He was in his driveway across the street.
Heard the engine cough.
Walked over with a rag in his hand.
He said pop the hood.
I said I don't know how.
He showed me. Inside the car. Under the dash. A latch.
The hood opened like a mouth.
He leaned in. Pointed at things I didn't understand.
Alternator. Battery. Spark plugs.
He said I can fix this if you want to learn.
I said my dad was supposed to teach me.
He looked at me.
I said he never got around to it.
He nodded like he understood the weight of that sentence.
He said I'll teach you.
We started that Saturday.
9 a.m. His garage. Coffee on the workbench.
He handed me a wrench and said this is a socket wrench.
I held it like a weapon.
He laughed and said hold it like you mean it. Not like you're afraid of it.