Fermín charges eighty a month not to touch the bike

«She's back», says Fermín without lifting his head from the carburettor he is stripping down. «Yours is where we left her».

«Still cranks worse», says Nadia.

«Still cranks worse».

Nadia lays the envelope on the bench by the door. Eighty euros.

«This month I'm changing the cables».

«You changed them in March».

«This month I'll change them again».

Fermín wipes his hands on a rag. He looks to the back of the shop. The bike is there, under a tarp no one has moved since 2022. Underneath is the Bultaco Sherpa that Marcos, Nadia's husband, left half-tuned the Thursday before the crash. When Nadia first came, that September, she said: «I don't sell her, I don't scrap her, you don't touch her». Fermín answered: «fine, eighty a month to leave her exactly as she is».

«How are the students?».

«The year-eights never get it first time. The year-tens hide it better».

«Right».

«Fermín».

«Yes».

«One day I'll have to take her out of here».

«One day».

Nadia leaves. Fermín lifts the tarp, turns the ignition key half a millimetre and sets it back where it was. The red light on the tachometer blinks twice. Next time I'll check her brakes, he thinks.