Shutterspeed by A. J. Betts Page B

feels the heat of it.
    â€˜If you could …’
    It’s still warm. He runs his hands along its body, aware that this is the first time he’s actually touched a Ducati. His motorbiking experience is nothing more than the cumulation of years of reading magazines and helping Nugget’s dad fix old Hondas. But he knows the first step means checking the wiring to see if the starter’s secure. His fingers shake when he does it.
    â€˜Do I know you?’ she says.
    â€˜I don’t know, do you?’
    â€˜Maybe. Perth’s not big enough for strangers.’
    â€˜I’m new here,’ he lies, as easily as she can.
    â€˜You sound familiar. Should we push the bike to your house so you can see better?’
    â€˜It’s all right, I know what I’m doing.’
    â€˜You’re the boss. I’ve got to make a quick phone call, okay?’
    She moves away, back to the edge of the river. He concentrates, remembering the sound the engine made whenit cut out. No, it wasn’t the starter motor. He slides his fingers up underneath the carburettors and finds the fuel line instead. He pulls it loose and knows what the problem is.
    He hears her speaking by the river and can guess what the motorbike salesman is saying on the other end of the phone. She lies, saying she’s run out of fuel and is at a servo in South Freo now. There’s a pause, and then, ‘Tomorrow morning’s okay? Oh god, all right then. Didn’t you realise the fuel gauge was low? I don’t think you should be sending people out on test rides if they’re going to get stranded. Yeah, for next time … all right … See you at eight then.’
    Carefully, Dustin blows through the fuel line, clearing it of crap that’d built up after shitty fuel and months of not being taken out on a decent ride. He secures the tube again and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. He removes the spark plugs and inspects the thread with his fingers, cleaning each one with his shirt. He’s biding time; there’s no rush anymore.
    Terri Pavish feels it too and sits, relieved, on the leafy soil. She leans against the trunk of a tea-tree and looks out to the river. ‘I wish I knew how to fix things.’
    â€˜You want me to show you?’
    â€˜Don’t bother, there’s some things I can’t learn.’
    â€˜Like what?’
    â€˜All technical things.’
    â€˜Like?’
    â€˜Like programming a DVD player, for one. And setting the timer for the sprinkler in the backyard. Useless. It feels like I was born with that part of my brain missing. Do you know what I mean? If I could fix things I wouldn’t get stranded like this.’
    â€˜You’re not stranded. Perth’s not big enough to get stranded in.’
    She laughs and nods. ‘Thanks for rescuing me.’
    He taps at the throttle body for no other reason than to sound necessary. This night is growing bigger than he could ever have imagined, and he’s loving the smooth adrenalin coursing through him.
    â€˜I’m so jealous that you can do that.’
    â€˜Don’t be. There’s lots of things I’m hopeless at.’
    â€˜Like what? What can’t
you
do?’ she asks him.
    â€˜Ummm … most things probably. Cook, clean.’
    â€˜Boring. I can’t touch my nose with my tongue.’
    â€˜I’m crap at sport.’
    â€˜I can’t go a day without white wine. No … probably one day, but definitely not two.’
    â€˜I hate vegetables.’
    â€˜Really? Even corn on the cob with chunks of butter?’
    â€˜Especially that.’
    â€˜Sad. I can’t do my taxes.’
    â€˜I don’t have a paying job.’
    â€˜I don’t have a motorbike licence,’ she admits.
    â€˜I don’t have a motorbike.’
    â€˜Shit, neither do I! It’s a friend’s.’
    â€˜Tell them it’s crap.’
    â€˜I don’t know why I’m