Not a Word

I stand on the cobblestones of Via della Lungara in Trastevere, holding a Vespa by the handlebars like a disobedient dog. The air is thick enough to chew, a wet wool blanket of August heat that has been pressing down on Rome since June. I am alone here, which is the point, but currently I am also broken, which is not. The scooter’s engine coughed twice, shuddered, and died with a sound like a choking cat exactly three meters from the open bay door of *Meccanica Arjun*.

The door is wide open, revealing a space cluttered with metal skeletons and the smell of grease and old oil. Inside, a man is bent over an engine block, his back to me. He is broad-shouldered, wearing a grey t-shirt that is stained dark at the collar and cuffs. His arms are corded with muscle, the skin pulled tight over forearms dusted with black grime. He does not look up when the scooter rolls another inch into the shadows of his workshop. He just keeps working, a rag in one hand, a wrench in the other, his movements slow and deliberate against the frantic heat outside. I have nowhere to go but in.