I Solve Problems

“Don’t,” said Stan, but Sirana was already out of her seat and heading to the front of the bus.

Smoke was pouring from underneath the hood of the bus, as it had been since the vehicle had stopped without warning about thirty seconds ago. The passengers shifted anxiously, muttering to one another. The driver had gotten out of his seat to inspect the issue, whatever it was, but he hadn’t opened the hood yet, choosing instead to stand with his hands on his hips.

Sirana came to the driver’s side, Stan following reluctantly but admittedly wholly of his own volition.

“Want some help?” Sirana asked. The driver looked up, a little surprised.

“Uhh… I was gonna call a mechanic.”

“Nah, don’t worry ‘bout that. I’ll fix it.”

“Don’t promise that,” Stan said.

“He’ll help me,” Sirana said, pointing at Stan.

“I won’t,” said Stan.

The mechanic raised an eyebrow. “Can you… do you know how to fix this?”

“Sure I do,” said Sirana. “I’m an engineer.” Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she added “That means I solve problems.”

“She says that every time,” Stan grumbled.

The driver seemed skeptical, which Stan couldn’t blame him for, but nonetheless took a step back to allow Sirana to have a look. She approached the hood with unearned confidence, popped it open, then took a step back to regard the smoking engine with her hands on her hips.

“Yep,” she said, “it’s fucked.”

“I think we all knew that,” said Stan.

“Stop negging me,” said Sirana, before popping open her shoulder bag, pulling out a worn pair of leather gloves, slipping them on, then pulling out a variety of tools, some of which she stuck in her waistband, others she simply dropped to the floor with a clatter.

“Why do you even carry that stuff with you everywhere,” said Stan.

“You say in the very situation that it is ideal for,” said Sirana.

“How often do you think this is going to happen,” said Stan.

“Literally it just happening once completely justifies carrying my tools around with me every day.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Sure it does. Hand me a wrench?”

“It’s in your waistband.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Get it yourself.”

“No <3.”

Stan sighed dramatically, shuffled over to Sirana’s side, and made a big show of scrunching up his face and grabbing the wrench from her waist with the tips of two fingers, holding it like it was radioactive. She snatched it from him.

“Thaaaaank yoooooou :3”

“Kill yourself.”

Stan leaned over to see what it was that Sirana was looking at. The engine was an overheated mess. Would probably need a new head gasket, which Stan didn’t doubt that Sirana had on her, but all accounts were pointing to this being closer to a six-hour job than a thirty-minute quick fix.

Sirana pushed her fringe out of her eyes. It fell back over them immediately, and she’d left a oil smudge on her forehead. Stan pointed to his own forehead.

“You’ve got a little…”

One hand still in the innards of the machine, Sirana stuck her other hand out and smudged Stan’s forehead with oil.

“Thanks,” he said, deadpan.

“Any time.”

“Do you have a spare pair?”

“What for?”

“So I can, I don’t know, actually help you?”

“I was more imagining you as my glamourous assistant.”

“Ughhhhhhh.” Stan slid onto the ground, his back leaning against the bus.

“Um,” said the driver, “how long is this gonna take?”

“Like, six, seven hours?” said Sirana, then she snorted.

“Don’t you dare,” said Stan, seeing her about to do the fucking hand motion.

“Six hours?!” said the driver, incredulously. “You sure you know what you’re doing, lady?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Stan snapped. “You’re lucky she’s doing this for free.”

The driver shut the fuck up.

Six hours of sitting on hard concrete and listlessly handing Sirana various tools later, she finally stepped back and shut the bus hood decisively.

“All done!” she declared in a sing-song voice.

“Oh thank fuck,” said Stan. He pushed himself off the ground, unsteady on numb legs, bringing himself round to the side of the bus and poking his head inside. The passengers had long since left on a replacement bus, but the driver himself was sat in his booth, resting his eyes with his head leant against the window.

“Hey,” said Stan. The driver blinked awake.

“Uhyeah?”

“Engine’s good.”

“Oh. Thanks.” He looked slightly unbelieving and it was with trepidation that he turned the engine on, but when the machine rumbled smoothly and the air before him remained smoke-free, he seemed to relax.

Stan stepped back out again, went to help Sirana with picking up the tools and machine parts littered around.

“I think,” he grumbled, “tit would’ve been easier if we just let them tow this thing away.”

“Nahhhh, I don’t think they even do tow trucks strong enough to haul a bus.”

“That’s stupid, why would they not make tow trucks for buses?”

“I don’t know, I’m not the one who makes ‘em.” She stood up straight, stretching, her back clicking and snapping. Stan cringed.

“That’s so gross.”

“My back hurt,” said Sirana.

The moment she stepped out of the way of the bus’ path, the engine purred, then growled, then the bus pulled away and down the road, smooth as anything.

“Hey, we did it! We did it because we’re best friends!” Sirana grabbed and shook Stan’s arm.

“You did it. You didn’t let me do anything.”

“Untrue! I let you pass me things!”

“That’s nothing. You never let me do any of the fun things.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s because I wanna do the fun things.”

“I hope you get eaten by animals.”

“And I hope you contract turbo cancer.”

They watched the bus retreat into the distance.

“Dude,” said Sirana, “that guy didn’t even like, let us get on the bus.”

“Asshole,” said Stan, nodding sagely. “You hear the way he was like, ‘you don’t know what you’re doing lady’?”

“He’s like, definitely a misogynist. I hope he gets cucked.”

“You think he’s married?”

“Good point!”

…

“So can I crash at your place?”

“You’re taking the sofa.”

“Do you have, like, any of those yoghurts I like?”

“Why would we have that. You don’t live there.”

“Why’s there never any food in your flat?”

“Never mind. You can sleep outside.”

“Wait, no, Stan, wait, I was kidding Stan-”