Clara smiled, slow and cold as a seized engine. “Then why,” she asked, holding up the dipstick like a dagger, “is her name written on your air filter in lipstick?”
She wiped the dipstick on her husband’s white undershirt—the one he’d left balled in the laundry, the one that smelled of someone else’s shampoo. dipsticks, lubricants & abject infidelity
The garage fell silent. The lubricant dripped once onto the concrete. A confession without a single word spoken. Clara smiled, slow and cold as a seized engine