by Andy Zebrowitz
Grit and oil had accumulated beneath his fingernails, covered his knuckles, worked its way up his forearms, and he wiped it off half-heartedly with an old towel as the hood slammed back down with a reverberating thud that echoed across the highway. It was not a well-done job, but it would have to do, and he placed an old screwdriver and wrench back into the toolbox in the trunk. This car, he knew, was not long for this world, and that was okay, for his destination held promises of something better. Just one more day was all he needed - boiling radiator, cranky fanbelts - and he'd be where he knew he should. After that, he imagined his future sketched out in front of him with the open-ended purity reflected in these miles of asphalt from here to horizon. Just one more day was all he needed.
Andy Zebrowitz lives in Atlanta but suspects more interesting things await him elsewhere, and hopes that someone will help him find his destiny.