POV — LEXI
That was a date wearing a parts run's clothes.
I know it at nine a.m. sharp, when the club truck rolls up to the porch and Kai leans over to push the passenger door open, and the whole cab smells like he detailed it. Kai. Detailed. A truck whose floor has historically been an archive of receipts and jerky wrappers.
"You cleaned the truck," I say, climbing in.
"The truck was always clean."
"There's an air freshener. It's shaped like a pine tree. It still has the wrapper half on."
"That's — okay, first of all, that's for the parts. Gaskets are sensitive to smell. Everyone knows this."
"Nobody knows this, because you invented it four seconds ago."
"Buckle up," he says, with dignity, and pulls out of the yard before his ears can finish changing color.
* * *
The county fair
