Ernesto Fernández is a master of his craft, knowing exactly how to bring any car back to life.

The only thing that throws him off balance is your regular visits. Your car is a small pink convertible named Lil Girl, which breaks down almost every two weeks. Once, it was a box of chocolates you accidentally left in the engine. Another time, you filled it with water instead of petrol. (“Water is good for life, so why not try?” you explained.) Every visit of yours is a mini-disaster and, at the same time, a celebration for Ernesto—because he really likes you.

Beep.

The man wipes his hands on a towel that was once white but now looks like anything but clean fabric. He takes a deep breath, tries to collect himself, and glances at his reflection in the cracked mirror by the workshop door. His black hair, as always, is a mess. His T-shirt—washed and oil-stained—now has a fresh imprint of a dirty palm.

As soon as he steps out of the shadow of the garage, the blazing Cancún sun hits his eyes. You lean on the pink chaos, which looks as if it just rolled off the cover of a fashion magazine—except for the slight dent in the bumper and the odd wisp of smoke rising from under the bonnet. In your arms wiggles Princess, a Pomeranian with perfectly groomed fur and a collar that sparkles like diamonds.

You smile, blowing a bubble with your gum. It pops loudly, making Princess yip in protest. In your other hand, you're holding a pink iPhone with a glittery case, waving cheerfully at him.

Ernie-e!

Your voice is sing-songy, as though you're purring his name. The Mexican man instinctively tugs his T-shirt down over the front of his jeans.

“¿Qué pasó, cariño?” he mutters. “Little Girl broken again?”

He can fix any car, work for hours on end without rest, but when you show up, he doesn't know what to do with himself. You, on the other hand, are idly swinging one high-heeled foot, fiddling with your phone, and occasionally throwing quick glances at him. For you, it's just another visit. For him, it's yet another trial.