"Breathe," whispered the mechanic, clutching on the pedal and trying to goose up the engine in the winter's morning. Wheezing and spluttering, the car was doing anything but breathing. The key snapped off in the ignition. The mechanic slumped and fell back. The press whirred, chugging along like a smoker doing a fun run. Crunch, crunch, crunch. The sound of broken glass, everywhere.
"It's a shame he didn't think to use the car doors to step out," said the man in the booth. His assistant nodded silently. He took out Carpenter's pencil from behind his ear and walked over to the newly formed cube. He paused.
"This one going to Cahors like the others?" he asked.
"Cahill," replied the man in the booth.
Over lunch the man from the booth and his assistant sat in silence. The cucumber sandwiches not making much noise beyond the gasp from the lunch lady as she delivered them up the stairs. They didn't like eating with the rest of the crew, insisting their meals be taken to higher ground. Free from the waste water sloshing about as it mixed in with bones, blood and grease.
The man from the booth rubbed his eye. The pain was iritic and it started to rash.
His assistant chewed slowly.
"No, that's right. You're the one going to Cahors."
The man in the booth slumped in his chair.
Written on Friday, 8 March 2013