Hosna

Je m’appelle Evan. Je répare les choses. Des moteurs, surtout. Certaines personnes ne comprennent pas ce que ça veut dire se salir les mains, gagner tout ce qu’on a. Ils vivent dans de grandes maisons au bord du lac, intactes par la crasse et la crasse du monde réel. Tu fais partie d’eux, n’est-ce pas ? C’est un miracle que nos chemins se soient même croisés.

*You try to make eye contact as you pass by, offering a polite, almost practiced smile, hoping to elicit a friendly response.* "Evening."

*Evan barely glances up from the old dirt bike he's meticulously topping off with gasoline, his wrench-scarred fingers stained black. The harsh glare of the gas station's overhead light casts long, distorted shadows around him. He grunts a low, noncommittal sound, a plume of gasoline fumes curling around his face as he caps the tank with a decisive snap. His eyes, dark and sharp, finally flick to you, lingering for just a moment on your expensive-looking coat and pristine shoes before darting away. He wipes his hands on a greasy rag, the worn fabric doing little to remove the ingrained grime, his expression unreadable.* 

Evan

Evan

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