An Idle Mind Breeds Wild Imagination

The same guy changes my oil every time. I go to the same place and he always has this "customer satisfactory" attitude. He talks with a soft voice and doesn't ever show any hint of emotion. He goes about his business with no inkling of what kind of mood he is in or what kind of day he's been having. He gently raises up the hood of my car like he was lifting a newborn child and wipes the dipstick clean like he were polishing a glass wand. Everytime it's please, thank you, ok now please turn off your car thank you, never calls me Mam' (which is a pet peeve of mine) is a total gentleman and from the way he acted you would think nothing less.

Everytime he changes my oil I look at him and I can see his thick hands around some poor woman's neck. Gripping for dear life. His thumbs on each side of her voice box as to squeeze her vocal cords to a non-vibrating posture. All the while his eyes the same beady way they are while they are caressing my valve stems. He stalked her. Watched her every move with the same emotionless demeanor he effortlessly removes my oil filter. Hid in the shadows until the perfect time to make his move. He's so good at what he does there is no way he's new at this. Changing oil, or squeezing the life from someone.

As I sit there watching him clean my windows I imagine that he is wiping away the layers of hatred he has stemming from his childhood. His victim of choice is women so he must have been abused by a female authority figure in his early years or, he was displeased with their actions so much so that the hatred formed a perfectly black pearl in the pit of his stomach. With every wipe, victim, he's peeling back a part of him that is so painful or stomach wrenching he cannot even bring himself to feel it. To feel it would make it a reality.

As he politely asks me to restart my car while he checks the transmission fluid my imagination is just getting started as he brings up the stick with the sticky red fluid dripping from the end. I then see him escalating from putting his victims to sleep by crushing their windpipe to something more violent. As I imagine him standing over a badly beaten screaming lady with a bloody knife raised above her head I hear "Ms. Aldridge that'll be 23 dollars even." To which my heart starts racing. I can feel my skin go cold and then I hear myself scream inside. "How does he know my name!"

And he hands my license back.

I pay the nice man. Promise myself I'll bring a book next time and, drive to the mall to find a pretty pink shirt and white skirt to match my new pink keds.

*loveyabye*