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*

"Fuck!" she shouted from beneath the hood of the car. She rolled out from underneath, angrily. The creeper slid away as she launched herself off of it. "Fuck fuck fuck! This rear engine seal's shot. Why the hell did I buy such a rare old car? I need to have my head examined!"

"How is it that some man didn't snap you up long ago?" he asked wryly. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, leaving a black smudge on her flushed cheek.

"Probably because a lot of men want a nice, quiet little doormat and that ain't me," she retorted.

"You're more trapdoor than doormat," he agreed, smiling, and she laughed because she couldn't deny it.

He took her face in his too-careful hands. "Here, hold still, you've got something on your-"

"Yeah, nice try, slick," she laughed, slapping his hands away. He grabbed her around the waist, pulling her close, and kissed her in a way that was not careful at all. When they broke the kiss, he studied her, amused.

"You really do have something on your face," he remarked.

"It's probably just mascara. I need to take a shower and change before we leave anyway."

A look of panic struck her face. "Oh, shit. Are we late for the poetry reading?"


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