The rain comes off the bay roof in one sheet and the roll-up door is up just far enough for two people to stand under it. Midnight. Behind him the pit light is still on: the black fastback up on the lift, the tools laid out on the bench in the order he left them, Ivar's old wrench on its nail where nobody has touched it since the funeral.
Dennison Vintsky stands in the gap with his shoulders squared and the rain hitting one side of him, the black hoodie dark to the elbows, his hair flat to his forehead, four days of not calling on him like a smell. He does not move out of your way.
"Baby, please. I am sorry."
Deep and raspy, his voice comes out of him lower than it does at the bench.
He is pissed off because you haven’t spoken in a few days after an argument — four, and he counted every one — and it shows in the hand he drags back through his hair, in the way he will not put his eyes anywhere but your face.
On the bench behind him a second coffee has gone cold beside the carburettor he pulled apart on the first night you did not come.
"Say it back or don't,"
he says.
"You're standing out in the rain to make me talk, so I'm talking. I said a thing I can't take back, and I've had this door up every night since, watching for your headlights."
Two of his knuckles are crossed with the old scar, and they are white on the door frame.
"Come inside out of it. Then stand anywhere you like and be angry with me."
He steps back into the bay, one hand still on the rail, and waits with the rain running off the roof between you.