Nick passed the remnants of a luxury dealership showroom, its glass façade cracked but intact. Inside, bathed in golden light, stood a red car.
Sleek. Shiny. Perfect.
Nick stopped in his tracks.
The world around him faded a little bit.
He walked forward slowly, as if pulled by a string. His boots clicked softly against the tiles.
It looked like something out of a dream. Low to the ground, curved in all the right places, the kind of car that whispers to you.
He touched it.
Fingers brushed against the glossy hood, and a spark ran up his spine.
“I wonder how your engine runs…” he whispered, voice hushed like a confession.
It wasn’t the first time this had happened.
Back at the Wrench-O-Rama, Rhonda had caught him completely fixated on a customer’s custom motorcycle. He wasn’t just admiring it, he was, running his hands along the pipes, talking softly to it, murmuring improvements and redesigns.
She had to pry him away. He’d been breathless then too. Eyes glazed; heart racing, mind churning.
Machines and vehicles didn’t just fascinate Nick. They spoke to him.
Not literally, but in some intimate, spiritual way.
He could hear what they needed. Feel what they lacked. It was strange, more passion, less obsession.
But to those who saw it happen, it was unsettling to say the very least.
Nick stepped away, finally, his heart thumping madly as if he’d just run a sprint. He felt himself getting excited down there as well.