Thirty Days Of Julia: Day Eighteen

Her van broke down in Whalebone Lane. I could
have written a sonnet to the failure
of machines, but could not fix her engine.
She found a phone box to call for help, then
joined me in a silent vigil. The moon
was replaced by her beaming ex, who loomed
through the wound-down window in a stale fug
of cigars and Blue Stratos. No worries,
he chirped. Rolled up his sleeves and popped the hood.
Fuck me, it's a museum piece. Come on,
lover boy. Lend us a hand. We pushed it
down a side road. You can call a garage
or a knacker's yard first thing tomorrow.
His look implied for me. Cocky bastard.