A Swift Current
A bead of sweat slowly slid down Ada’s forehead and onto her eyebrow, a summer breeze sweeping down the airport runway, ruffling her dirty coveralls. She sucked in a quick breath, tensing her back and raised arms, working to keep hold of the swift electrical current that would prefer to jump from her mental grasp and fry her husband to a crisp. “How’s it lookin’?”
“Not too terrible. The fourth piston is shot, though,” Roland said, leaning into the engine, dirty sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses slipping down his perfect nose as he heaved on his wrench.
She smirked, another bead of sweat gathering. Her husband was a fine one, alright; five foot eleven inches of good humor and slim muscle. Muscle that flexed beneath his sweaty navy blue shirt, tickling Ada’s imagination. She leaned back to admire.
The electrical current bucked, yanking her back to reality and jarring the sweat drop down her temple and cheek.
“Eyes on the prize, Sparky,” Roland chuckled, face half hidden by a biocentric carburetor.
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” Ada huffed, tightening her grip on the current. She rubbed her shoulder against her jaw, catching the moisture that had gathered and glancing at the shady metal Quonset across the pavement. “You’d think they could at least let us work inside on a day like today.”
Roland shrugged. “The lighting is better out here, anyway.”
Ada rolled her eyes. Roland was too nice sometimes. More likely the owner didn’t like paying for two mechanics and was making his point with the summer sun.
That, however, wasn’t their fault, but the nature of GIG powered engines. They ran clean, for sure, but once you installed a GIG, there was no turning it off. That power just continued to circulate, like blood in a body. The only way to work on one was with a Sparky and a Surgeon---one to hold the power back, the other to operate.
Thankfully, Ada had the quickest Surgeon in the tri-state area bound to her ‘til death do them part.
She drew in a deep breath, flexing her fingers a little to feel the charge that still circulated behind her dam, eyeing the thermos beside the toolbox.
Roland leaned back, snagging a second wrench and flashing her a wink.
“What do you want for supper tonight?” he asked, diving back in. “Heard there was a diner ‘bout halfway between here and home that serves a mean pot roast.”
Ada arched a brow at the half of him sticking out. “Sure, that’s fine.” She nodded, welcoming the distraction from the heat, her voice dropping low. “Very fine.”
“What’s that?” Roland’s voice echoed through the engine.
“I said, pot roast’s fine,” she yelled.
He squatted back, one hand holding something in the engine while the other reached to dig in the toolbox.
Ada tipped her head lightly to the right, unsure if the tingle growing in her fingertips was from the GIG, the heat, or her most excellent view.
An explosion went off beside her head, light flashing and arching. Ada screamed, gripping her ears. Roland jerked backward, landing flat out on the pavement.
Tools and sparks littered the ground, the smell of burnt hair hanging in the air. Her nervous system coursed with remnant energy. Roland moaned, rolling to his side and slowly pushing up.
“Roland. Roland!” Ada finally jerked into motion, pushing past the fog of shock and fumbling to the ground beside him. “I’m so sorry. I let it slip. It’s all my fault! Oh Roland, I’m so---”
“Breathe, Sparky.” His voice was raw, muffled in her ringing ears, embers still glowing in his blue shirt and pants. He offered a lopsided smile, pain edging his eyes. His glasses were missing.
She spun, scoured the ground, her face hot and wet, fingers numb.
Roland’s hands took hold of hers. Her gut lurched, but she let him turn her to face him, both of them trembling.
They sat in silence, the summer breeze slipping over them, its warmth soothing away the panic of the moment. The sparks died down.
Roland drew in a slow breath. “Maybe not pot roast, then.”
