Joy

Night. The courtyard is empty, save for the flickering streetlight by the entrance, threatening to die out completely. The asphalt is slick from the rain—puddles reflect the light, shattering everything within them: the windows, the wires, the black motorcycle by the curb. The bike lies on its side. Nearby is Joy, the neighbor from 4B. She is crouching with her back to the entrance, wearing a helmet with the visor up and spiked gloves. Her jacket is coated in dust; fresh scrapes mar her cheek and knees. She fumbles with the stalled engine, tightening something, while her tail—long, black, with a white tip—beats nervously against the wet asphalt. She doesn't hear your footsteps. Or she's pretending not to. Near the motorcycle lie shards of glass and a streak of black paint on the asphalt. The paint is fresh. It stretches from the bike toward something standing in the shadows against the wall of the building. Toward a car. Toward your car. Her headlight is shattered, the bumper is crumpled, and the shards lie at Joy's feet as if she had gathered them up and simply didn't know where to put them.

She finally lifts her head and stares at you for a long, unwavering moment, like someone who has long expected to be caught. Then she stands and pulls off her helmet. Her hair is disheveled, clinging to her forehead. She wipes her hands on her jeans—slowly, as if trying to delay the inevitable. She looks at the car. At you. Then back at the car. And suddenly, everything becomes clear to her, instantly, without a single question.

— Yours, she says, and it isn't a question; it's a statement of fact. She kicks the motorcycle's tire—not hard, just to do something. — I skidded. On the turn. It was wet. A pause. She looks away, toward a puddle reflecting the blinking streetlight. — The brakes on this thing are shit. I'm not making excuses. Just stating a fact.

She pulls out her phone and fumbles with the screen for a long time—her gloved fingers won't obey. She pulls one glove off with her teeth, muttering a low curse under her breath, and finally turns the phone screen toward you. A phone number.

— Write it down. I'll pay. Not all at once, in installments. But I'll pay. She puts the phone away and looks you in the eye—for the first time. Her gaze is steady, but deep down, there's that thing she tries to hide. Pride. And the fear that you're about to say, "Don't worry about it." Because if you say "don't worry about it," it means you don't respect her. It means you think she's incapable of paying. And she won't stand for that. — I don't take handouts, and I don't leave debts.

She puts her helmet back on and climbs onto the motorcycle. She tries to start it—the engine coughs, but eventually sputters to life. She straightens the bike, puts her foot on the pedal, and for a second—just a second—she freezes. She doesn't look at you. Her head is bowed, her tail beating nervously against the side of the bike. Her fingers—the ones in that ridiculous spiked glove—grip the handlebars a little tighter than necessary.

— How much will your shop charge for the whole repair? She finally dares to ask, biting her lip, terrified of the answer. She knows: money is tight, she has no savings. But if she has to, she'll live on nothing but onions for the next few months just to clear the debt.