Today was supposed to be the day I would have my car fixed. It’s running fine and all except that there’s this warning light on the dashboard that stays permanently on. The first time I noticed it was maybe three months ago. Maybe more. I thought it was just a glitch or something. That the issue would resolve itself in time. Also, why is the driver in the icon holding a ball on his lap?
“That’s the airbag light!” Jeff said, looking at me with what I can only describe as amazement as to how I could not know that.
I shrugged. I didn’t bother to tell him that after a while, I began to look at the warning light as a sign of protection — the ball a symbol of the universe guarding the driver (me) against hoons and tailgating tradies in their utes blazing through the early morning traffic like they couldn’t contain their excitement to go to work.
I’m still alive, obviously. My archangels have been working double time to keep me safe, silently thanking their Big Boss I work close by that it only takes one Guns ‘N Roses song from start to finish to get me there. Granted, Estranged runs 9 minutes and 23 seconds long, but still.
The repair shop told me (through Jeff) to come back once they can accommodate another car in their garage. Which means the celestial contract has been extended.
So that’s how I ended up in the car yard helping Jeff buff this van they want to sell, looking pretty buff himself. And by “helping,” I mean who are we kidding? I just want a picture of me taken looking like a legit detailer, mate. So hurry up. This shit’s heavy.
Not only did I make him take my photo. I also expropriated his speaker so he can enjoy my playlist and appreciate Metallica the same way he does his hip hop groups. We’re chalk and cheese, him and me. The one thing that keeps us together is our shared repulsion to go back to the dating game and navigating newfound love in the age of Tik Tok.
When his work was done, we went to grab lunch together at the Plaza. I told him I wanna start documenting bits of our everyday lives now. “Do it,” he said.
I look at the wedding band on his ring finger which he only started wearing about a week ago and I realize why I’m still with him: he supports my crazy.
Takes one to support one, I suppose.
And whether it’s out of encouragement or apathy, I don’t really care.