"Will you do me a solid?" she asked

I was tinkering with a car I was remodeling when my iPhone rang. "It's Razor, wassup?" The silky feminine voice on the other end of the line spoke in somewhat of a delicate whisper. "*Heyyy*, Razor, will you do me a solid?" "A solid? What's a solid?" I asked. "A favor. I need some assistance if you have the time." "Happy to help you in a few; I'm just shutting the hood of my car here. I slammed the hood. What are the specifics?" She hesitated for a beat. "I'm not sure, but I think my carburetor is not getting any water. My truck won't start." I chuckled. "Ah, okay, well that's actually a good thing." "That my truck won't start?" she queried. "No, no, no; that your carburetor is not getting any water," I explained. Silence. And then, her dumbfounded sigh was emitted followed by an exasperated, "Oh, I see. Well, would you mind stopping by and having a looksie?" I took a peek at my iWatch, wondering why I even bought the darn thing. It tracked me like the flippin' FBI. "Gimme 10 minutes and I'll be there with bells on." "Bells? Oh, yeah, okay - awesome! And if you fix it," she began, "I'll be happy to buy you your favorite bottle of wine. These winter nights are pretty chilly, after all." I didn't know if that was a come on or if she was just being sincere. Either way, I didn't feel any need to be paid for doing someone a favor; and yet on the other hand a bottle of bubbly sounded pretty good. It was 22 degrees Fahrenheit at four in the afternoon in upstate New York, and getting colder by the minute. I shivered from the top of the nape of my neck to my damp snow boots below. I wheeled my '65 Pontiac GTO into her expansive driveway right off the lake and came to a stop in front of her 2010 Chevy Silverado. She had snow chains on the tires, in expectation of a heavy snowfall later that evening. Eight inches the meteorologist had predicted. Tiffany came out to greet me wearing a short-sleeved sweater, yoga pants, and a New York Yankees ballcap. "Hey, Razor. Well, here it sits like a 2-ton paperweight." "No worries, we'll get it cranked up in a jiff," I promised. "So, I haven't seen you in months. How's your love life these days?" "Oh, my last relationship ended because I didn't open the car door for her," I teased. "So sad," she breathed. "Yeah, instead I just swam for the surface." "Damn you, Razor!" A grin flowered over her narrow mouth, much like a Chia pet lamb. "I never know whether to believe you or not." "How could you, you're rarely in touch anymore," I argued. "Yeah, I know," she admitted. "I've been focused on writing a darn cookbook to self-publish on Amazon. I don't know whether to include the recipe for rum-flavored candy balls or not." "Balls? Rum? Sounds delish!" "Oh, you're gay now?" she needled. "Gay? No, of course not. I don't mean that in a negative way; it's just that...well, no," I finished. I checked to see if the carburetor was getting any gas. It was. Next I wanted to check to see if the engine was getting a spark from the coil. "Get in and crank it up for a sec." She turned the key and nothing. I wiggled the wire on the coil and had her try again. Still nothing. Then I spotted the problem: the battery cable to the positive node was completely off. "What is it? she asked with a tone of impending doom. "Serious problem here, little lady," I began. "Looks like you're going to need an engine overhaul." "Oh, no!" She hung her head in a melancholy way I'd not observed in her since she broke her leg in high school when practicing for a dance cheer 10 years previous. "Just kidding!" I immediately responded. "Look here." She bent over and brushed against me, as I pointed at the disconnected battery cable. I popped it on, tightened it with my right hand, then snagged a wrench from my toolbox and tightened it up properly. "Get in and crank it up." The engine sparked to life with a muffled roar. She popped out of the truck clapping her hands in an excited glee. "Woohoo, you did it, Razor!" I bowed, genuflected and then replied, "At your service, Madam." She dashed to the house as I shivered in the cold and snow flurries caressed my cheeks. In a New York heartbeat she returned with her skinny purse. It was a Balenciaga Lariat. The gal had class. She handed me a twenty dollar bill as her lips pecked by frosty, red cheek. "I don't need your money, Tiff," I began; "I'll buy a six-pack of beer on the way home." "But I insist," spat the queen. "That won't buy my favorite wine, dear," I offered. "Which is...?" and then her voice trailed off. "Well, I don't really drink wine, but a fine champagne is more to my taste bud's liking." "Cold Duck?" "Dom Perignon," I stated matter of factly. "Oh." She reached into the Lariat and pulled out two crisp Benjamin's. "That ought to do it," she pouted. "Sorry, I wasn't trying to be a cheapskate." "Save your money and instead do *me* a solid," I countered. "In what way?" she replied coyly. "Let me take you out to dinner later tonight...on me, of course." "I thought you'd never ask me, Razor!" "McDonald's?" "Burger King!" "See you at 7:30 sharp." "I'll be here with bells on." "Lemme have a look," I replied, popping the hood.