The Everlasting Smell of Motor Oil

by Melissa
(Vancouver, BC)

She had never ridden a motorcycle before in her entire life. Her husband asked her to join him, but she said no every time. She had never regretted it before, after all, that was his thing not hers. She had other hobbies, and he didn’t like some of them. As long as they spent their time together, she was fine. Every night, they had their routine, like a finely choreographed dance, never missing a single step. They rarely fought, and the only argument they had ever had in their entire marriage was what to name the dog. And then the man up and died on her. For the first time in her marriage, she was angry with him, not only for leaving her but for all of the little things she had never noticed or maybe that she had never cared about. Like the smell of motor oil in the garage.

She boxed up his clothes and the little knick knacks that made her so sad to look at. The clothes went to the thrift store and she sold the knick knacks and made a couple bucks. She walked out to the garage, the smell of motor oil and gasoline stinging her nose as soon as she walked in. The tears were burning her eyes, narrowing her vision down to just that black motorcycle in the center of the garage floor. She ran her hand along the seat and the handlebars, imagining that she could feel him still. There in his saddle bags was an old tee shirt, soft and worn. She held it up to her face and breathed deep, smelling the man that she missed so much.

A few of his friends had asked about the motorcycle, offering a good price for it. She had promised that she would consider their offers and that one of them would be the first to be offered the chance to buy this bike. She just was not ready to let it go, not just yet anyway. Coming out to the garage like this, breathing in the scents that reminded her most of him, made her think he was not gone, just away. Maybe she should really sell the bike; maybe this was unhealthy.

And so it goes for her, spending a few minutes out here in the garage, dusting off the bike and breathing in the lingering smell of motor oil and the ghost of the man that she still missed. The guys stop by to help her out every now and then- cleaning the gutters, repainting the fence and other little chores that she was going to have to face on her own. One fellow, a shy and quiet guy, has been coming more frequently than the others. The last time, he brought a bouquet of flowers, clutched in his slightly sweaty hand. He asked her out and after a lot of soul searching, she agreed. He might even teach her how to ride the motorcycle if and when she was ready.