<div class="floatleft">(http://i.imgur.com/EQWMuQc.jpg[/url])</div><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span class="bbc_u">Lisa Yamata</span></span><br/><span class="bbc_u">Location</span>- Jason Hunt's Garage<br/><span class="bbc_u">Date &amp; Time</span>- March 11th, 2006. 1:13 PM<br/><span class="bbc_u">Tag</span>- Aaron<br/><hr/><hr/><br/>The anger caused by that frustration was dropping, albeit slowly. The visible rage on her face, the tensed muscles, the assertive tone was dissipating. She snapped on Aaron and it wasn't even his fault. The flaw of the passionate.<br/><br/><strong>"Gotta hand it to you for being that determined. The anger is an offshoot of that, I think." </strong><br/><br/>Truer words have not been spoken about Lisa. Her passion for doing a job<em>right</em>provides such a short fuse for dealing with issues, especially for issues involving something that should be a simple fix. Not once has she ever been bested by an oil pan, an intake, fuel lines. She<em>always</em>got the job done, and got it done right. She<em>can</em>finish this oil pan. Tapping the seared bolt just takes time and it is annoying to no end.<br/><br/>A grimy hand slid up to the left side of her neck, rubbing the exposed skin in a circular way, a soreness built up from looking up and to the side at the undercarriage of t his damned civic. She cared not for getting the mix of oil, dirt, and other grime on her skin. It was her war paint, in a way. In fact, she liked it, quite a bit. Something about coming home and seeing the work you put in just wash off, it was a reminder of her determination.<br/><br/><strong> "Help yourself, Leave the Civic alone, Honda makes replacement oil pans for these models. We'll sear it off, re-install the mounts and ship in the part, We'll have to hold it a couple days."</strong><br/><br/>Her head turned to look to Aaron, eyes narrowed. Did he think she couldn't tap a few more bolts? Did he think she couldn't do this? "Hey now, yo...."<br/><br/><strong>"It's a good sign.</strong>He cut her off, her little rant stopped short as she just watched him as he spoke.<strong>You demand perfection, not from others. Lee said one hour, yet you worked for three. No, you expect mistakes like his. It's when something is supposed to work... ... ... ... You're angry right now...for the same reason you drive... that Rx-7."</strong><br/><br/>Cryptic phrasing aside, she took it all as a compliment. Head hung forward slightly for a moment or so, following up with a few nods. "Your right. I'll give it a break. Today has been fuckin' frustrating enough." She spoke as Aaron walked to the door and outside. The moment that door closed, she tilted her head back and emitted a heavy sigh from her lips. "Jesus, Lisa, get a fucking grip."<br/><br/>She wasn't centered, just a powder keg ready to go off. She needed to calm herself, and knew just how. Walking back over to her work bench, she tossed the socket wrench ontop of it, walking toward the kitchen. In she went, not even noticing the group around with the alcoholic beverages. Her mind was set on one location, and one only: the refrigerator.  A yank upon the door, she peers her head inside and gives an audible "Ah-ha." Her hand grips around a.....dark red can? Retracting her arm, she showed her<em>prize</em>. A can of cold Dr. Pepper. The angry Asian-American mechanic was sated by the cool, bubbly liquid of Dr. Pepper. A yank on the tab, a loud hiss of the carbonation, and a few loud gulps, Lisa looked to relax a little.<br/><br/>It was then that she turned and saw the group in the kitchen. Jamie, Blaire, Jason, John, the small little group sitting there with a bottle of wine, bourbon and cigarettes. "Ah, hey." Lisa seemed to be caught by surprise. "So what is the occasion?"