Heart Throb

            The day I gave my heart away was a rainy one—the sort where the wind makes the rain fall sideways, and the drops are small and needle-like on your bare skin because it’s too cold for its own good. I was running late, on top of the rain, and since bad things come in threes, I shouldn’t have been surprised that this was the day that my car’s engine quit on me in the middle of a busy intersection.

            Luck got me safely to the side of the road, or it did if you believe in luck. I suppose that a scientist could chalk it up to a lack of friction on wet roads, and momentum. An object in motion will stay in motion, etc. etc. I hate science, personally. I’m a firm believer in luck and chance. Fate.

            Probably how I got into this mess in the first place.

            Dumbfounded, I sat in the carcass of my car and watched the rain fall in a fine, sharp mist against the windshield. I looked at the "check engine" light, the fuel gauge, then at the oil and the temperature. Everything looked okay to me. It looked the same as it ever did, anyway. 

            Looking at the dash was about the extent of my experience with cars. I’d never opened a hood in my life.

            When my brain finally broke through the bog, I tried my hand at percussive maintenance—because beating the dashboard with one’s fist is just as good as opening the hood when you have no idea what you’re doing.

            “Stupid—stupid—stupid—stupid!” I said the word until it meant nothing, and then I let my head fall against the headrest of my seat and heaved an almighty sigh.

            I turned on my hazard lights. I used my cellphone to call in to work, and then I called a tow truck.

            “It’ll pro’ly be about an hour, you know. With the weather an’ all.”

            Yes, of course it would.

            I stared at the dashboard again, thought about taking a nap, decided against it, turned on the radio, decided against that, reached for my phone and decided that I didn’t want to waste the battery.  All of that took five minutes.

            The pattern may have repeated a dozen times if a pair of headlights didn’t appear in my rear-view, come precariously close to my car and then stop. I watched through the rain as the door opened, as a black umbrella appeared, and a figure made its way to my car.

            I was already rolling my window down when the figure approached me.

            “Looks like you’re in a bit of trouble.”

            “Ah, yeah a bit,” I found myself quickly descending from anger into the low realm of embarrassment. Talk about a perfect specimen of the golden ratio. Green eyes, dark hair, high cheek bones—a face delicately crafted with symmetry in mind. I felt my heart throb. Oi.

            “The whole thing just sort of up and died on me,” I admitted.  “I’m waiting for the tow truck.”

            “Ha! You’ll be here a while. D’you know what’s wrong with it?”

            I shook my head. “I hate cars.”

            That’s when the smile happened. “Well I can look for you, but it might cost ya.”

            It was a stupid thing to do, in retrospect, but with that smile in my face, it was hard to think. I undid the brass buttons of my coat and pulled it open, pulled down the collar of my shirt. It was easier to pull my heart out than I thought it would be, and less painful.

            Gripping it firmly—it was heavy for being so small, dense, I guess would be the word—stuck my hand through the window, and winced when the rain began to wash away the blood. I could feel the raindrops hit it, stinging, but I did not shy away as I held my heart out on offer. “Will this do?”

            Long fingers brushed over my heart, a palm pressed against it, muffling its beat. “Yeah, all right.” And then it was gone from my hand, in the pocket of someone else’s coat. Someone whose name I didn’t even know.

            I popped my hood and watched the figure disappear to look at my engine. A few minutes passed, and then: “Try it now.”

            Like magic, my car came alive.

            “Should do you, at least to get home, or to a proper mechanic.”

            “Thanks,” I ran my hand through my hair and rubbed my empty chest. It was starting to ache now. I almost said, “Can I have your number?” but the words died on my lips. I smiled, but it was a thin, weak smile.

            “Sure thing. Just be careful. No drag racing or anything.”

            “Haha…yeah, no.”

            I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I let my heart be carried away in someone else’s coat pocket.

            I don’t know what happened to it after it left my sight, but I still feel it, occasionally, when it’s jarred suddenly, or if it gets squished between things, wherever it happens to be. I don’t think about it, much, except for on days when the wind makes the rain fall sideways, or when I see two people who made it passed a smile, and I wonder what I might have missed.