Deeply focussed on stripping the BMW R1200 I'd picked up for a steal, then spent the past month rebuilding to get it to work, I didn't hear her until she'd stepped right into the garage.
Strutting into the space like sex on a stick, hips swinging, tits swaying, clearly pissed at something I'd done.
I keep the workspace clean and ordered, everything in its place and well looked after. I buy good equipment and keep it well. I'm good with my hands, know my way around an engine, a regular mr fix-it. It's my space, with my tools and my toys, and I don't take kindly to interruptions here.
Slowly twisting around in my seat as I turn back to put down the spanner, my gaze falls from her burning brown eyes, past the cheerful Bridgestone calendar (surely that's not what's upset her?), I notice the clock whose ticking second hand magnifies the problem. She was expecting me to collect her 45 minutes ago. And I can see she's made an effort to get ready. I've screwed up and she's angry at me.
I take a moment to consider what to do next. Apologise and capitulate? I don't think so.
I let the spanner fall, clattering to the cement floor. Breathing deeply as I rise from my seat, I stand to my full height and take a step toward her.
Her hands soften their firm hold on her hips, the hard line of her mouth compromised by the slight parting of her lips.
She's so swift to submit. She feeds my desire to dominate.
Wiping my hands on the dirty greasy rag, I cross the floor quickly and tie it tightly around her eyes.