Neighbor’s Husband Borrowed My Tools

The knock came while I was still under the truck, one arm shoved up into the wheel well trying to get the filter wrench seated right. I almost ignored it. Then the side door opened a few inches and a voice said, “Hey. It’s Mark. From next door. You busy?”

I slid out on the cardboard. My hair stuck to my neck. “Kinda. What’s up?”

He held up a drill battery the size of a brick. The charge light was dark. “This died on me. Lisa wants a shelf in the laundry room before she gets back from her sister’s. I figured you might have the same charger.” He glanced at the oil pan under the truck, then at the smear of grease across my forearm. “Or I can just come back.”

“I’ve got a spare somewhere.” I wiped my hands on my jeans and stood. The rag was already black. “Give me a second.”

The workbench was a mess—old receipts, a half-empty bottle of brake cleaner, the good battery sitting under a stack of shop towels I kept meaning to fold. I dug it out and set it on the edge. Mark stepped in far enough that the door clicked shut behind him. The radio was on low, some station playing the same three songs it always did on Saturdays. He set the dead battery down and didn’t reach for the good one right away.

“Oil change?” he asked.

“Trying to be. Filter’s stuck.” I nodded at the truck. “You can take that and go if you want. I’ll find the charger later.”

“I don’t mind waiting.” He leaned against the bench, arms crossed. The T-shirt he had on was one of those soft, washed-out gray ones with a small hole near the collar. He watched me go back to the filter. After a minute he said, “You want a hand? My old man used to make me do these. I still remember most of the bad parts.”

I almost said no. The wrench was already slipping. Instead I said, “If you can get this off without rounding it, yeah.”

He took the wrench. Our hands didn’t touch on purpose, but the space under the truck was tight and his shoulder ended up against my hip while he worked the filter loose. It came free with a wet snap. Hot oil dripped onto his wrist. He swore under his breath and wiped it on his jeans without making a thing of it.

“Thanks,” I said when we were both upright again. The funnel was already in the fill hole. I poured. The bottle glugged. A little ran over the side and down the block. Mark steadied the funnel with two fingers, then pulled them back when the stream stopped.

We stood there with the empty bottles between us. The garage smelled like the usual mix of oil and the cut grass that had blown in under the door. Outside, somebody’s mower started and stopped. Mark picked up the good battery, turned it over once, and set it back down.

“You can keep that till tomorrow if you want,” I said. “I’m not using it.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He didn’t move toward the door. His eyes went to the open flannel I had tied around my waist, then to the tank top underneath. He looked away again, at the radio. “This station’s been playing the same Springsteen song for twenty minutes.”

“I know. I keep meaning to change it.”

Neither of us did. He shifted his weight. The concrete was cold through my socks. I was aware of the grease on my arm and the fact that my hair was probably a mess and that he could see both. He didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. I wasn’t in a hurry to make him.

“Lisa’s gone till late tomorrow,” he said, like he was answering a question I hadn’t asked. “I told her I’d have the shelf up. She’ll be pissed if it’s not.”

“You should probably go do that, then.”

“Yeah.” He nodded, but his hand stayed on the edge of the bench, close to where mine was resting. The knuckles on his right hand had a small scrape. “Unless you need anything else while I’m here.”

I looked at his hand. Then at his face. He was watching me the way people do when they’re trying not to get caught looking. I could have stepped back. The truck was still dripping. Instead I said, “The couch is cleaner than the floor if you want to sit for a minute. I was going to take a break anyway.”

He followed me to the old couch in the corner. One cushion sagged. We sat with a foot of space between us. The radio kept going. After a while he reached over and picked a piece of grass off the sleeve of my flannel. His fingers stayed there a second longer than they needed to. I didn’t pull my arm away.

“This is probably a bad idea,” he said.

“Probably.”

He leaned in anyway. The kiss was off-center at first. His mouth was warm. I tasted the coffee he’d had earlier. When I turned my head to meet him better, my knee bumped his. He made a small sound and put his hand on my thigh, high enough that the denim pulled tight. I let him. My own hand ended up under the hem of his shirt, palm flat against his stomach. He was warmer than I expected. A little sweaty already from the work.

Clothes came off in pieces and not all at once. The flannel stayed on my shoulders for a while. His jeans got stuck on one boot. He had to stand up to get them the rest of the way off and the couch creaked loud enough that we both paused. I was still in my underwear when he sat back down. The elastic had rolled. He hooked a finger under it and looked at me.

“You sure?” he asked. It didn’t sound rehearsed. More like he was giving me the out if I wanted it.

“I’m not sure about much right now,” I said. “But I don’t want you to stop.”

That seemed to be enough. He pulled the underwear down my legs. One of them caught on my heel. We both laughed, short and quiet, and then the laugh died when his hand slid between my thighs. I was wetter than I’d realized. He noticed. His breath changed. I reached for him at the same time, found him hard inside his boxers, and worked them down far enough. He shifted so I could get my hand around him properly. The angle was awkward. My wrist bent wrong. I adjusted. He did too.

We stayed like that for a while, hands moving, kissing with more teeth than either of us probably meant. When I swung a leg over his lap the couch protested again. He held my hips and let me settle. I reached down, lined him up, and sank onto him in one slow push. It wasn’t perfect. I had to lift and try again before he was all the way in. Once he was, we both went still. His hands stayed on my waist. I could feel his pulse where we were joined.

I started moving because staying still felt worse. Small rocks at first. The radio was still on. Somewhere outside a car door slammed. Mark’s head tipped back against the couch. One of his hands slid up under the flannel and cupped my breast through the tank top I still had on. The fabric bunched. I pulled the shirt up myself so he could get his mouth on me. His stubble scraped. I liked it more than I expected.

It took longer than it should have for either of us to find a rhythm that worked. My thigh started to burn. He shifted under me and the angle changed; suddenly it was better and I made a noise I hadn’t planned on. He answered by thrusting up once, careful, then again when I didn’t tell him to stop. Sweat gathered at the small of my back. His fingers dug in and then eased when I leaned forward to kiss him. I came first, grinding down hard enough that the couch frame knocked the wall. He followed a minute later, hips jerking, one hand fisted in the flannel at my shoulder. The sound he made was low and a little embarrassed.

After, we stayed where we were until my leg started to go numb. I climbed off carefully. There was a wet spot on the cushion. I grabbed the nearest shop towel and wiped myself, then handed him the other end. He cleaned up without looking at me much. We got dressed in silence. My jeans felt too tight. His shirt was inside out when he pulled it on; he fixed it without comment.

The good battery was still on the bench. He picked it up on the way to the door.

“I’ll bring this back,” he said.

“Whenever.”

He hesitated with his hand on the knob. “This was… I don’t know what this was.”

“Me neither.” I crossed my arms. The garage felt colder now. “You should probably go hang that shelf.”

“Yeah.” He opened the door. Late light came in. “Thanks. For the battery. And the rest.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He left. I stood there until I heard his back door close, then turned the radio off. The filter wrench was still on the floor under the truck. I left it. The couch cushion was damp. I flipped it over and sat down anyway, listening to the quiet.