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He apologizes for smelling like gasoline. She just smiles and says, "Don't worry about it."
What she doesn't say is that she loves the smell of gasoline on a man's hands because it reminds her of being six years old and hiding behind her dad's legs every other week at the garage while he and his friends revved engines, talked shop, and smoked Kools. It reminds her of the racetrack, holding her brother's hand and stuffing her mouth full of Bit-o-Honeys while her dad snapped photos of dragsters and greasers for the magazines. It reminds her of the one boy she probably ever loved enough to have stayed married to forever if he hadn't died on the road before they had a chance to find out. What she doesn't tell him is that the smell of gasoline on his hands reminds her of every single best kind of love she's ever had or hoped for in her life.
What she doesn't say is that she loves the smell of gasoline on a man's hands because it reminds her of being six years old and hiding behind her dad's legs every other week at the garage while he and his friends revved engines, talked shop, and smoked Kools. It reminds her of the racetrack, holding her brother's hand and stuffing her mouth full of Bit-o-Honeys while her dad snapped photos of dragsters and greasers for the magazines. It reminds her of the one boy she probably ever loved enough to have stayed married to forever if he hadn't died on the road before they had a chance to find out. What she doesn't tell him is that the smell of gasoline on his hands reminds her of every single best kind of love she's ever had or hoped for in her life.