Slipstream

The Audi’s hood is popped like it’s trying to escape, engine ticking heat into the August air as I wipe grease off my palms with a rag that’s more stain than cloth. It’s parked half-crooked across two bays, engine hissing like it knows it doesn’t belong.

He’s standing beside it—button-down shirt, khakis too clean, loafers that haven’t kissed a pothole. Hair parted neat. No sweat. No slouch. Like D.C. humidity doesn’t touch him.

“You the one called about the Quattro?” I ask, tossing the rag on the bench.

“Yeah. It started making this awful choking noise when I turned onto New York Ave.”

I glance at the plate—vanity tag. Just IX-78 and a University of Virginia Law frame. Custom, but quiet. I glance back. “That your car?”

He smiles. Easy. “Yeah. Got it from my dad when he upgraded. It’s mine now.”

That grin’s got the kind of polish money buffs in, but there’s something under it. Not sharp. Curious.

I tap the fender.

I try the hood. It sticks at first. I slap it once, hard, and it releases and jumps like it got spooked.

He flinches. I don’t.

“Start it up,” I mutter, propping it open.

He does.

He’s done a pretty good job of assessing the sound.

I give him the signal to cut the engine. He does.

“You’ve got pressure backed up. She’s choked alright.”

He’s watching me. Not the car. Me.