Emily Richardson, he thought, shortly after the one-in-the-same had left his shop.  Nice name.  Nice woman, too.  Damn shame he’d probably never see her again.  The torn paper with her number on it indicated she was an artist, going by the illustration of the city’s skyline at sunset.  Still, her number was right there for the calling.  Yeah, right!  Boris chuckled at the thought, knowing he wasn’t that bold with women.  He was laid back when it came to the fairer sex, never the aggressor.  Something about being shot down in flames always lacked appeal.<br/><br/>Boris entered Emily’s number into his cell phone, and then carefully tore it from the sketch.  He would dispose of her digits properly, but for now, he searched for a push-pin.  Locating one, he secured it to her skyline sunset on the cork board behind the counter.  A motorcycle would be claimed today, and it was time for him to prep the beast.<br/><br/>A couple of hours later, the incessant whine of a scooter on approach assaulted his eardrums.  Man, he hated those things with a passion.  Their engine note sounded like mosquitoes amped up on too much caffeine.  Regretfully, said annoying scooter was parked right out front.  Seconds later, with<i>Suomy </i>helmet in hand, an excited (that’s putting it mildly) Sam Fischer burst through the door, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.  “What’s up, Boris?!  My baby all ready to go?” he asked.<br/><br/>“That she is, my friend,” Boris replied, matching his customer’s smile.  “Meet me out front while I go get her.”  Sam nodded, and retraced his steps to stand near his scooter.  A few minutes later, and Boris wheeled Sam’s new love-of-his-life right next to him.  “I will say this,” Boris began with a devilish grin, “that when you fire her up, if you don’t experience instant boner, then you’re dead to me.”  In response, Sam laughed loud and hard, cuffing him on the shoulder.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”  Moments later, a raucous, fruity symphony erupted from the exhaust pipes of the twin-cylinder machine.  As it idled, Sam exclaimed, “Holy fuck!  I see what you mean!”<br/><br/>Helmet secured, Sam started to slip his gloves on.  Something suddenly dawned on Boris.  “Whoa, whoa!” he shouted over the sweet din, “what about your scooter?  You coming back for it?  Shall I put it in the shop?”  Sam shook his head, replying.  “Up to you what you wanna do with it.  It’s my son’s, and he just upgraded to a pick-up.  All yours, my friend.”  Following a search in his pocket, Sam flipped the key to Boris.  With that, he mounted his new ride, and rumbled off down the street.  In gratitude, he raised his left fist in the air for its maker to see.  Boris smiled at the gesture.  Another satisfied customer.  Bees’ knees, baby.<br/><br/>Wheeling the scooter into the back of the shop, a certain someone came to mind.  Emily.  What are the fuckin’ odds?! Boris thought.  Back out front, he retrieved his phone and dialed her digits.  After four rings, it went to voicemail.  “Hey, Emily,” he began.  “This is, uh, Boris from<i>B’s Knees Moto.  </i>You might wanna drop by sometime.  I got a little, um, surprise for you.”  Hanging up, he muttered, “Man, that fuckin’ sucked.”  Unable to do anything about it now, he eyed the innocent scooter.  “Oh yeah, baby.  I’m gonna have me some fun with you,” he stated.  Gathering the necessary tools, materials, and parts, Boris set about “upgrading” Emily’s new ride.