Space
There's a kind of unacknowledged intimacy. He sits rigid and obedient, whereas I bite my tongue to keep back the flood of questions destined to be shrugged away. It always ends this way, him somewhat beaten or banged up and I am delegated the fix up queen for a time. But there is previous little talk between us, just the sound of hand scraping metal, the buzz of electric connections coming together, the scent of oil and solder.
For the close proximity, there is little acknowledgement of my presence. Just an occasional nod; yes the numbness has subsided. Yes, that feels loose.
And the routine continues. I do my best work at this hour, shortly before 4am. Not quite dawn, and certainly displaced from the evening before. Perhaps it is this leeway that sharpens my concentration, quickens my pace. My hands are nimble and surprisingly dexterous for all the awkward position they've been thought.
I wasn't sure what happened. I had placed my hand upon the sinew of muscle between skin and metal. The flesh was obviously tender, and though a mechanic's expertise stopped short of human health, the last thing I wanted was to set an alignment only to have to correct it later due to discomfort. An arm that does not feel natural is nothing more than a shoddy prop. Hell, you might as well have taped a baseball bat in the socket.
He shot up as if I had electrocuted him. For a brief second, I thought I might have.
I was all too conscious of her steady breathing. It didn't help that it was against my neck. I could tune it out; reflect on the day, on Al or the latest literature we had reviewed. Hours would pass as Winry tinkered with whatever the hell she does back there. My back stiffening and the one foot losing circulation from lack of movement.
And then, she placed her hand against my back. Certainly there were more provocative places to put it.
But it felt like she had intimately caressed some primitive part of my brain… some instinctual, primal, inexplicable place that demanded a response to the unexpected caress.
I stood up, leaving her baffled and disheveled along the floor; random bits of metal careening to the floor. I walked to the furthest side of the room, breathing in as much stale, stagnant basement air as possible.
"Ed?" I glance her way, keeping my face unreadable and my movements nonchalant. I am suddenly hyper-aware of her greasy fingers, and the half-torn nails poorly maintained. Working hands. Metal laborer hands. I can still feel their residue along my back, guiding the places of muscle where bone had been 4 years before.
What was wrong with me?
There was only one thing to do; the story of our lives…
Ignore. Distract. Play dumb.
I sit back down, gesturing to the miscellaneous metal pieces strewn about. Just continue, damn it. Kindly disregard my momentary lapse in etiquette.
I hear her sigh. She has become acclimated to a continuing lack of comprehension in regarding me, and my behavior. And I will let her do so. Understanding is overrated anyway.
