Lee works on his Honda after dinner while I practice my Jeet Kune Do in the beam of the headlight. My shadow dances with the engine's stuttering pulse. I wear garter-stockings and a mini-skirt to distract him, and he revs the engine with each crescent kick.
His slender fingers (I joke that he should be a geisha) are always wrapped around a tool--synchronizing carburetors, adjusting valves. I never understood how men make machines work. When I scrape a knife across a skillet, my teeth twinge, but he keeps nine-hundred steel pieces waltzing like Nishimoto conducting a string orchestra.
“Good thing you kick ass like Bruce Lee,” he says.
“You...umm...” he stammers.
“You have a knack for getting into bad situations.”
“I like to have fun.”
“With the wrong kind of guys,” he shrugs.
Last week I passed out at a party. My “friends” left me. I woke up while some bastard was pulling my jeans down. I punched him in the throat. Twice. Told him (while he choked on the floor) to remember me next time he thought about raping a drunk girl.
“If he's buying the next round,” I punctuate this with a snake strike, “he's the right kind of guy.”