One Last L.O.F.*

The first to roll in that morning arrived steaming and warm. Her palms flattened on its metal panel. After rumbling ceased, there came the hiss of air pressure relieved.

Digging inside the compartment, she glanced at plastics and metals, registering fluids along the way. She eyed one she knew tasted like bitter silver, an oil that didn’t easily wash away when splashed on ones lips.

She reached in, aiming for a metal canister in the front and jerked back as heat pierced her forearm. Taking the sleeve offered her, she slipped the coarse, dense protection up her arm. The material wrapped, cool and heavy, perfect to task the job. She felt the same.

Reaching past the branding heat once again, she turned the snug canister until the seal broke. Black liquid slithered out, snaking down metal as gravity called and landing in a bucket.

Burnt and gritty, the scent of the used fluid was the final hit.

After the day ended, at home in her apartment, he asked, “How was your first day back?”

Thinking of the chain of oil changes strung throughout the day, she smiled. Finally, she answered, “Good. Job fits like a kevlar sleeve.”

The lingering stings from overheating exhaust comforted in its form of reminiscence.

*L.O.F. = Lube, Oil, Filter

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