The Mechanic of Her Heart’s Engine: Keeping Her Mobile for a Man Who Isn't Me

My name is Matteo. I run a small garage in Milan, Italy. In this city, style is everything, and the machines we drive are reflections of our souls. I spent my youth learning how to make a Ferrari scream and a vintage Vespa purr. I’m an expert in torque, friction, and the delicate balance of an engine. But for the last year, I’ve been a fool for a woman named Alessia.

Alessia drives a beat-up, ivory-colored 1990s Alfa Romeo. It’s a beautiful car, but it’s temperamental—much like her. She’s a struggling fashion student with a smile that makes the grease on my hands feel like gold dust. Whenever her engine stutters or her brakes squeal, she brings it to me. And every time, I tell her the same lie.

"It’s just a loose bolt, Alessia," I’ll say, while I’m actually replacing an entire alternator or fixing a transmission that should have cost her two months’ rent. "No charge for a neighbor. Just bring me a coffee sometime."

I’ve spent thousands of Euros on parts for that car. I’ve stayed up until midnight in the shop, my back aching and my eyes burning under the halogen lights, just to make sure her car is perfect. I convinced myself that by being the one who keeps her moving, I was the one she’d eventually want to move toward. I thought that every mile she drove was a mile she owed to my devotion.

Last Friday, she came in looking frantic. "Matteo! The car won't start, and I have to be in Lake Como by tonight. It’s a very important weekend. Can you fix it? Please?"

I dropped everything. I pushed a paying customer’s luxury SUV to the side and spent four hours rebuilding her fuel pump. I didn't even stop for lunch. I wanted to be her hero. I wanted to be the reason she made it to her "important weekend."

"It’s ready," I said, wiping my hands on a rag as she arrived to pick it up. "Runs better than the day it was built."

"You are a saint, Matteo!" she cried, kissing me on both cheeks. The smell of her perfume stayed with me even after I went back into the shop. "I don't know what I’d do without you. You’re the only man I can actually trust with my life."

As she climbed into the driver's seat, a man pulled up on a sleek, expensive Ducati. He took off his helmet, revealing a face that looked like it belonged on a billboard in the city center. His name is Lorenzo.

"Ready to go, baby?" Lorenzo shouted over the roar of his bike. "The villa is waiting, and I’ve already ordered the prosecco."

"Ready!" Alessia waved to him. She looked at me one last time. "Thanks again, Matteo! If it wasn't for you, I’d never be able to make these trips to see Lorenzo. He lives so far, and he hates taking the train. You’re the best friend a girl could have!"

She revved the engine—the engine I had poured my heart and my savings into—and sped off, following Lorenzo’s motorcycle toward the mountains. I stood in the doorway of my garage, surrounded by the smell of exhaust and the silence of a Saturday shift I’d wasted for her.

I realized then that I wasn't her partner; I was her pit crew. I was the man who kept the tires inflated and the oil fresh so she could chase a man who wouldn't even know how to change a flat tire. I was funding her romance with my labor, providing the transportation for her to fall in love with someone else.

My phone vibrated. It was a photo from her. It was the view of the lake from the villa, with Lorenzo’s hand visible in the corner of the frame, holding a wine glass.

"The car handled the mountain roads perfectly! You're a genius, Matteo! By the way, the check engine light came back on... can I drop it off Monday morning? I’ll buy you that coffee I promised!"

I looked at my empty shop and my bruised knuckles. My rent is due, and I’ve spent my profit on her fuel pump. I know I should tell her to find another mechanic. I know I should charge her the full price. But I’m already checking my inventory for the parts I’ll need on Monday. I’m a master mechanic, but I can’t seem to fix the one thing that’s truly broken: my own inability to say no to a woman who only sees me when she’s stalled.