Hinged on Faith

Chloe bounded out of the front door, down the front steps, landing in a stomp onto the driveway. She smacked together her 6 year old hands with a shrill and floated into his chest, an ornament dangling from his thick Tennesse boy neck.

Today was make or break, hinged on faith that she could make it.

"Can I help, daddy? Please? Oh, PLEASEEEE!?"

His eyes went twinkle for twinkle with Chloe's. "You see that wrench over there?" He pointed. His hands were massive; the ridges on his fingertips and lines of his palms were black with grease from the mechanic's shop he had worked at since he was 18. He could never scrub them clean. It made it hard for him to want to hold her. He would always be a Mechanic.

Chloe unclasped from his neck, landing in a thud next to her overturned BMX. She impatiently pirouetted, scanning a few tools on the pavement. She shrugged.

"Now. Chloe, remember what a wrench is? When would we have used a wrench?" He crouched down to eye level.

"Uhmm...." she smoothed her wild blonde mane in thought. "My desk?"

He smiled.

She nodded and surveyed again.

"GOT IT!" She bent down and picked up her father's wrench with two hands.

"Well, you, miss lady, are okay. Now, let's get these suckers off."

She smiled.

In Chloe's cul-de-sac, removing the training wheels would make her queen. She knew what was at stake. She was the only girl within 4 and 1/2 blocks. And none of the boys her age had dared, yet. Pretty soon, she'd be one of two, picking kids off the garage wall for a game of kickball.

They worked the nuts and bolts of the wheels. Greased the chain. Hosed down the red frame. Shined the spokes. Her father flipped the dirt bike upright with one hand. The tires bounced against the pavement.

He grinned at her, eyes wide saucers. "Well, whatcha waiting for, tiger?"

She was hesitant. He waited, holding the seat. She slung one tennie over the frame and sat down carefully, adjusting like a bull rider in the pen. She nodded.

"Okay, now stand up on those pedals, get a good push and just look ahead. Easy like..."

Chloe did as he directed. He trotted behind her. The seat left his fingertips and she sailed. "You got it! Now go get 'em!" He yelled after her. She screamed and giggled. Her feet peddling in little, quick circles. His smile widened and then narrowed again as he watched her form get smaller.

Today, he let something go that he loved very much. Today, he hinged it all on faith that she would do it. And hoped and prayed that what he loved, would always return.

He Could Have

"So, what do you think?" He asks.

"It's a fantastic question. One that can only be answered by oneself. What do you feel?" She replies. Her chocolate eyes, half guarded by tortoise shelled specs, reminded him of Natasha. It hadn't occured to him until this moment. He wanted to crawl back into his swagger and feign control. Natasha never liked him like this, failing. Natasha always tasted of pineapple-guava jelly. They could never get enough of each other. Until one day, she had enough of him.

The corners of her lips curled into a treble clef. She was awaiting an answer.

"Ah. Fuck her." He said boomed confidently. "World's smallest heartbreak!"

The treble clef flattened into two parallel, latitude lines. And he knew she never liked him like this, cocky. He wanted the treble clef back and tried to grin it back. She held his eyes and turned to Bob, a real loser, he thought. "Need another one, hon?"

"Ah, you know I do Trish." Bob had $1,000 riding on the game. What a loser. The loser was losing. Down by 27 points. Extra point. Now down by 28. Bob, the underdog lover, growls. Bob blew all his money on football, scratch tickets and booze. He looked respectable enough, his hair styled and slicked back in an old-timey Hollywood do. Slacks dry cleaned. Matching belt and shoes.

"Son, you're a fool to let that one get away." Bob, the loser, chirps in. He never looks at him. He scratches his ticket, glances at the game, scratches the ticket, rubs the debris away, glances at the game.

"What do you know about it, Bob-O? Old timer wasting all your life in a crummy old bar with your scratch tickets." He is feeling defensive.

"You'll learn." Bob replies and scratches, "Perhaps you won't."

He watches Trish, she is leaning over the bar chatting up the military boys who just strolled in. The treble clef is back. He is jealous.

"You have something to say about Natasha?"

"Nope. That one there." He points to Trish. Trish. Trish. "But every weekend, I watch you fucking it up in here."

Trish. Trish. Trish. Trish would make him be an honest man. And that shit's hard. Besides, who wants to compete with military guys every weekend. It's easier to fuck girls like Natasha. And after, he could have his bar. He could have his Trish.