Losing the love of my life taught me that inactions have consequences. My new bookkeeping job teaches me that numbers don't lie, but people do.
Sharing yoga with others is my refuge from the darkness pulling me to stay home. A ginormous pro footbal...
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"Whelp." Abe's weathered face wrinkled into an accordion of absolute confusion. Removing his hat, he scratched the thin grays. "Dagnabbit, Sam. We did what you asked?"
His voice lifted with his eyebrows. Squinting, the side shift of his eyes was my only 'incoming' warning. Two hands slammed my chest and nudged me back a stumbled step. Torture contorted Mia's red, flushed face. Crease lines etched between her narrowed eyes and curved around the corners of her lips. She ignored each tear that slipped from her eyes, sparkling in the early afternoon sun in their downward trails.
And fuck, her eyes darkened into a raw, unfiltered release of emotions. I froze at every thought shooting through her, wedged between wanting to know what caused her reaction and not wanting to spook her by admitting it. Intermixed with the dark brown striations, pain, and anguish radiated caramel-toned highlights around her enlarged pupils. It was raw, almost carnal as if something gouged into her soul.
After more than a month of indifference, anger, and petty insults, Mia's unchecked emotions slammed me harder than her second push. Tongue-tied and dumbfounded, my head tipped back. Under the pressure building in my chest, all I could do was blink. Her eyes blazing, mouth pulled into a downward curve, and bearing all dimensions of broken, lamenting, soul-crushing pain...she was beautiful.
She was also a leaking hydrant of enraged anger. "How could you?" Her emphasis crushed the word, implying I violated a personal family possession.
Was it her grandfather's? Dad's? "Mia, he fixed it."
Her lips curled back, revealing clenched teeth. She balled her hands at her shoulders, which wrenched up to her ears. The pink flush coating her forehead and cheeks spread down her neck, an ink stain of blush blotting her chest.
What the fuck had we done wrong? When Abe located a replacement alternator and carburetor out of state, I asked him to give the truck a makeover. At a minimum, it needed to be brought into this century. Abe's restoration experts buffed out the rusty, faded baby blue and repainted it with a custom match to its original 1987 gunmetal blue with silver striping. Under the glassy exterior, the biggest improvements were the drive shaft, suspension, and intake valves being repaired or replaced. All were one Mia pothole bump away from dropping the engine block.
Over Mia's shoulder, Abe the possum retreated. His muttered "good luck" reflected the same guilty tone he used when asking damn near sixty times if I wanted to dump money in the truck.
With zero hesitation, I told him, "Do it." I had thought–fuck, it was dead wrong. "Mia, it wasn't safe to drive."
Mia's voice dropped to a whisper, choked off by short, wheezy gasps. "He ruined it–I-I-"
Her eyes widened, and the color drained from her face and neck. Sweat glistened on her forehead, and her confident stance swayed. She cupped her trembling fingers to the sides of her forehead, dipping her chin and hiding the glazed look in her eyes.
