Stan Goes to Kansas
“You fix it or I fix it. You,” she said. “You fix it or I fix you.”
And she stamped off. Pulling her skirt down and high heeling her way across the cracked pavement to her rented BMW. Her owned BMW was on the lift and Stan, who was under it with a wrench, was now beside it, outside the garage door, turning away from her skirt and cursing her curtness. Then he looked at her skirt and cursed her pertness. The last one more breathy and drawn out.
“Pervert,” she said, but she hadn’t even looked back. Stan couldn’t believe it. His utterance was nothing more than a hopeless kiss of the wind, destinationless. Having no one to whistle with, to elbow–he was alone in the shop–Stan became embarrassed. When he saw her hold the bottoms of her skirt and bend to plump the bottoms of herself onto a cleaner space of concrete he was concerned.
“Ma’am?” She was some distance away now and she shouted to shut up, Stan. She removed from her handbag a pair of running shoes and swapped the red heels. She tied the Nikes over her pantyhose–the shaded, sleek lengths ending now in light rubber and mesh. Gingerly she sprang up–an athletic scraping of grainy concrete loosenings–and after primly brushing her lightly dusted derriere, she opened up an explosive sprint–the caliber and weight of a sharply influenced horse.
There was a grit to her mouth, a type of fixed grimace that only bullets can erase, the kind of wild flare that leaps fences to kill. Stan stepped back, but at this point she had already ripped her shirt.
There was the shredding of clothes and the mucky sliding of two humans covered in grease. It took Stan an hour to move. He was well fixed. The Jersey skyline was awful and hot and as she drove off into it Stan rolled to his belly and wept.