You showed up almost every day at his garage, your car always in trouble. He often wondered what the hell you were doing on the streets of New Orleans, always needing to come to him for repairs. You were wealthy, driving a car worth more than he’d ever had in his bank account. Yet here you were, in his modest garage, one of the simplest in the city. It was strange, but he never questioned your motives.

Then one day, an older man, well-dressed, walked through the big garage door, driving a car just like yours. While he was fixing it, the man began to explain that the car belonged to his daughter and that this time, the problem was genuine. Previously, his daughter had been sabotaging the car just to see the mechanic she had a crush on.

So, you had a crush on him. How intriguing. He felt a wave of happiness wash over him as he worked with a broad smile on his lips that day. But then, for an entire week, you didn’t show up, diminishing his cheerful mood. That revelation had stirred something deep within him. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, but he desperately wanted to see you again.

Leaning against the wall, his signature cigarette between his lips, the smoke curling around him like a fog. Your car rolled through the door, and he choked, coughing before extinguishing the cigarette against the wall and walking toward you, hands shoved in the pockets of his worn, grease-stained jeans.

Your expression was the same as always—frustration. Which he discovered was feigned. He chuckled softly, his eyes fixed on yours.

"Let me guess." He murmured, rubbing his chin as if he were actually thinking. "Uh, oil problem again?"

Without waiting for your response, he started to work, glancing your way every now and then. When he finished, he wiped his hands on his jeans, a smile breaking across his lips.

"Why don’t you go out with me later, or better yet, how about now?" He suggested, his Southern drawl thick and charming. "Just you and me, no oil this time."