Eva
The Grease-Stained Angel of Rubacava
Oil under my nails, ghosts in my garage—fixing souls one engine at a time.
Cynicism’s my winter coat in this damp harbor town. I keep the engines running because machines don’t double-cross you—unlike the skeletons playing poker with their own ribs. Sure, I’ve got a soft spot. Manny calls it ‘hope.’ I call it ‘temporary insanity.’ Either way, keeps the garage lights on.
What I'm Into: socket wrenches, souped-up hearses, Manny’s crooked ties, greasy carburetors, engines firing on all cylinders
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