Free A Mural of Hands by Jenelle Jack Pierre

 
    A Mural of Hands
     
    I was crouched down in front of the Camry, putting on a new fender, when I heard tires crunching over the gravel road behind me. The fender securely in place, I stood up and turned to see a silver Lexus a few feet away. Sunlight glared across the driver’s windshield, and I raised my hand as an impromptu visor as I tried to make out who was inside. Plump white clouds sat behind a beaming sun.  
    The door opened on the driver’s side and a lovely pair of long legs stepped out in strappy sandals. A young woman appeared, and for a moment I wasn’t sure if it was her appearance, or if it was the combination of an empty stomach and the intense heat that suddenly made me lightheaded. I grabbed the red handkerchief from the back pocket of my overalls and wiped away the sweat beading my forehead.
    “Good morning,” she said, walking toward me. Her accent was American.  
    I stared, taking her in, light brown skin, long black hair like coal, almond eyes, and a small and curvy body that made her floral top cling to her. I caught myself. “Morning,” I replied. “Can I help you?”
    “Something’s wrong with my car.” She motioned to the Lexus. “I heard Dilman’s was the best auto shop.”  
    “Yeah, this is the best shop outside Port of Spain.” She wasn’t from here. The car told me. It was a rare thing for a man in Trinidad, much less a woman, to have had that kind of ride, even one that was used. My stomach growled, and I glanced toward the trees further off the side of the road. The fruit on the orange tree was still green, not yet ready for picking. The calabash mangos, though, were perfectly yellow.  
    A couple had already fallen to the ground. Two or three of those would go down smoothly after I ate the corned beef sandwich I’d brought for lunch. “What’s the problem?”  
    She shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
    “Let me take a look.”  
    “Where’s Dilman?”  
    “Do you know Dilman?” I lowered my eyebrows. “I’ve never seen you here before.”  
    “No, my dad referred me to him.” She crossed her arms. There was something about her that I liked, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. She unfolded her arms, and then rested her left hand on her hip. “So, where is he? I thought this was his garage.”  
    I ran my hand back and forth over my closely shaven head. Even though I was more interested in getting a date with this woman than fixing her car, I wasn’t about to take any attitude. I’d heard from a pal who traveled to New York City every summer that American women could be snobby.
      “Dilman told us yesterday that he had to run errands before starting work for the day. I think he’s also visiting his folks. His family lives in San Fernando.” I pulled out the handkerchief and wiped my face again. “Only one other mechanic and I are here right now.” I inched nearer to her.
    She looked at the dirt and grease on my hands, and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, okay,” she mumbled. “Are you ready to take a look at the car?”
    I stopped staring. She was a bit of a smarty, my type. I grinned.  
    She dropped her arm and sighed. “This sun, man, it’s getting to me.”
    I stretched out my right hand. “I’m Antonio, by the way, nice to meet you.”  
    She hesitated, and I wiped my hands off on the handkerchief to make them cleaner. “Natalie.” She smiled then, extending her hand.  
    The softness of her warm skin caused me to grip it. Her shoulders jolted forward slightly. So slightly, that if I wasn’t into her, I might’ve missed her reaction. For a quick second, her warm eyes appeared more curious about me than what might be wrong with the car.
    I released her hand, encouraged. Women had told me that I was dark and handsome—my momma, my sister, and my numerous girlfriends. They’d told me that they liked how my body was strong and lean, and my skin smooth. There had been many meaningless flings, but I’d buckled down when I’d finished trade