Fixer Upper
One day, a beautiful young pilot waltzed into the garage. Her eyes fresh like steel, with flecks of rust. Her hair was vibrant like copper being forged by the light of sunset. She knew what she was doing as she sauntered across the room, closing the gap between us.
"I hear you know how to fix a skip." She tapped me on the shoulder. "Excuse me!"
My face was buried in an engine compartment and I hit my head pretty hard on the hatch when she touched me on the shoulder. "Dammit! Whadaya wa..." I wasn't mad anymore as I quickly adjusted from seeing red to seeing the visage of beauty before me.
She knew how to fill out a uniform. It wasn't tight, it wasn't loose. She just stood at ease and so did the clothing as it draped her body like a silk curtain.
"I'm sorry for bothering you, but I was told you knew how to fix skips. I've got this old diesel my gramps gave me and I was hoping to take it out while I'm on leave, but there seems to be some damage from while it was in storage. Can you help me?"
"S-s-sure..." I was still in a daze, caught somewhere between a headache and the flutter in my chest. "I'll send someone to pick it up and I'll give it a look-see and patch 'er up as fast as I can."
"Fantastic! How much do you think it'll cost, I'm kinda strapped until my warpay comes in."
"How 'bout dinner and a cruise on your skip?" I got a little ahead of myself, but I would have hated myself if I didn't ask the question.
"You got brass ones. I'll give you that... but like I said: I'm strapped."
"I didn't say you had to pay for dinner. What kind of gentlemen would I be if I made you pay for our first date?"
"I like your style, mechanic. Deal. Pick me up with the skip when you're done."
