The bike died on the outskirts of town, coughing and spitting blue smoke. I managed to slide to the side of the road, curse out loud, and even kick the innocent tire, though it was clear from the start that the tire wasn't the problem. After half an hour of fruitless fiddling with the carburetor, I admitted defeat and headed along the highway to what the map said was a village with the promising name "Remont." It sounded like a mockery. The workshop was found just beyond a slanted sign—a long, corrugated iron hangar, in front of which sat the rusty hulk of a Gazelle and several motorcycles in varying states of disrepair. Inside, the smell of machine oil, old rubber, and heated metal was strangely soothing, like the scent of an autumn forest. The owner stood with her back to me, bent over the workbench. She looked to be around thirty-five or forty, one of those women whom age neither beautifies nor deforms, but simply molds into a tight, shapely form. Her work overalls were pulled down to her waist, the sleeves tied at her hips, and underneath was a simple gray T-shirt, darkened at the back by sweat. Her arms were stained up to the elbows with machine oil. Her short, dark hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and a thin streak of sweat glistened from under her headscarf at her neck. “Closed,” she said without turning around. "My bike died at the entrance," I said. "I'm willing to pay." "Everyone's ready until the ass gets hot." She straightened up and turned around. Her face, like her entire appearance, was unmakeup-free, weather-beaten, with a firm chin and dark, slightly narrowed eyes that suggested not refusal but rather boredom. She wiped her hands on a rag hanging from her belt and looked me over from head to toe, the way one looks at an unfamiliar part, deciding whether to take it on. "I don't need money," she said finally. "I need to put the roof on the outbuilding tomorrow. If you help me, I'll take a look at your animal." I didn't argue. Within an hour, I was dragging sheets of old roofing iron, drenched in sweat, while she worked nearby—silently, quickly, without wasted movement. From the very beginning, there were no polite inquiries or casual chatter between us, only short commands: "Hold," "Lower," "Secure." And in this rough, businesslike manner, there was even more trust than in some long conversations. That evening, she drove my bike into the workshop and, squatting, stared at the engine for a long time. I stood in the doorway, smoking and watching her. Her shirt had darkened again at the back, and when she bent over, the neckline revealed the cleavage between her breasts, down which a thin trickle of sweat ran. I glanced at the rusty beam hanging from the ceiling, but it didn't make me feel any better. "I won't do it until tomorrow," she said without raising her head. "You can spend the night here. There's a shower." The shower turned out to be a makeshift stall in the corner of the workshop, the kind where the water flow alternated between ice-cold and boiling. I stood there, head tilted, when I heard the door open. She walked in without knocking, wearing the same overalls, and tossed me a clean towel on the hook. "Would you like me to rub your back?" she asked, as if offering to hold the hood of her car. I turned around. She was looking straight ahead, unsmiling, but her eyes held that look you get when you've made up your mind long ago and see no point in delaying. Her jumpsuit had slipped off her shoulders, her T-shirt had fallen to the floor. The water sloshed against the iron, but through it all, I could hear her breathing—calm, almost businesslike. We met under the streams, wet and slippery. She placed her palms on my chest first, ran them down my stomach, and grabbed my penis—not playfully, but like someone grasping the handle of a tool—making a few sharp movements, never breaking eye contact. I yanked her toward me, sank my lips into mine, and she responded not tenderly, but with the same rough greed with which she had previously worked the wrench along the carvings. Her taste was salty, and her skin smelled of gasoline. I pressed her against the tiled wall, lifted her up under her buttocks, and entered immediately, without any further caresses. She gasped, threw her legs over my lower back, and dug her fingers into my shoulders, then began moving with me in lockstep, as if we'd been working together our whole lives. Water flowed between our bodies, making every touch even more slippery, even hotter. I moved sharply, she did the same, and soon we lost our rhythm, like losing our breath, and it was better than any tenderness. Then she came, crying out through her teeth, and then, without letting me pull out, she whispered something demanding, causing me to explode inside her, burying my face in her wet neck. We slid to the floor, right under the streams, and sat there for a long time, breathing heavily. The water kept roaring, and the workshop smelled of steam and something sour—either rust or us. She didn't give me a chance to catch my breath. She turned her head, looked at me from under her brows, and suddenly, pressing her palm against my chest, pushed me against the wall. I didn't resist—after everything that had happened, my strength was gone, leaving only a thick, warm emptiness in the pit of my stomach. "Now come here," she said in a low, hoarse voice, and, rising, sat down on the edge of a wooden bench that stood against the wall. She spread her thighs, leaned back, supported herself with her hands, and looked down at me. Her gaze was the same—direct, possessive, without a hint of embarrassment. I knelt before her. The floor beneath me was rough, waterlogged, but I no longer felt the cold. She grabbed the hair at the back of my head and pulled me toward her, not roughly, but demandingly, like someone showing a dog exactly where its muzzle should be. She smelled of water, soap, and that same sour dampness that permeated the entire workshop. I ran my tongue along her inner thigh, felt the skin twitch, and then I entered her mouth immediately, without any careful caresses. She jerked, hissed through her teeth, and wrapped my hair around her fist. “Use your tongue,” she said, and it sounded like an order. I complied. I began working my tongue quickly, pressing hard, pinning her to the bench with one hand across her stomach. She began breathing louder, then moaning—so low, the sound sent a jolt down my spine. I inserted two fingers into her and began moving them in time with my tongue. She gripped my head with her thighs, and I felt her fingers on the back of my head tighten even more. The moan turned into a wheeze, her body arched, trembled, and she came so powerfully that for a few seconds I could barely breathe—I just held her hips and waited for her to let go. Then she went limp, unclenched her fingers, and stood up without looking at me. She walked to the shower, turned off the water, and, throwing a "dry yourself" over her shoulder, walked out of the stall, leaving me on the wet floor. I didn't get up right away. The taste of her was still in my mouth, and it wouldn't wash away with saliva. Throwing on a towel, I went out into the workshop. She had already pulled on a T-shirt and was standing at the workbench, intently fiddling with something in her hands, as if I wasn't even there. I spent the night on the old sofa in the corner, listening to the rain pounding the tin roof. I slept fitfully, waking up with every breath of wind. And in the morning, when I came out, the bike was already at the gate—washed and repaired. She was gone. Just a note on the workbench: "If you need any repairs, stop by." I started the engine and pulled out onto the empty highway. The wind blew in my face, but inside I felt neither calm nor joyful. I felt as if some part had been removed from me, lubricated, and then put back, but not as it had been before. She had taken what she wanted—my body, my strength, my mouth—and returned me to the road, like someone returning a finished product to a customer. There was no malice in this. There was something more honest and therefore more offensive. I stepped on the gas. The engine roared smoothly. The bike was fine. Which couldn't be said about me.