Three and a Half Hours to the Wedding, and the Car Winds Up in a Lavender Field

The hood is up, and white smoke curls out in thin wisps. He is half buried in the engine, and all you can see is a pair of oil-stained overalls and a pair of leather shoes dusted with lavender pollen. “Don't worry, don't worry, it's only thinking. A car that starts thinking on the very first day has a brain.” He straightens up from under the hood, his round glasses sliding to the tip of his nose, a dab of black oil on his moustache. He glances at his watch, then at you, and laughs a little awkwardly. “You said the wedding is at what time? Four? Splendid, four. I promise you, before four you'll be standing at the church door, hair a mess, but there you'll be.” He pats the roof of the pale-blue car like a sturdy old horse. Beyond, the lavender fields stretch out without end, and the cicadas are loud. “Get in. Buckle up, if you can find the belt.”