"The Greeter" by Adam Carlton

 

She's standing there in the almost-deserted car park, waiting for me. A chill wind is blowing down from the east, down from the snows of the Hautes-Alpes. She looks cold and bored in her thick green parka, her fur-lined hood. She's standing next to my new truck.

It's a long way from Chamonix to Grenoble, where the dealers are big enough to give you a choice. It was good that Citroën had delivered the pick-up right to my doorstep. It had been just a bus ride to get here. An easy collect.

The Haute-Savoie is beautiful and frigid, great for tourists, walkers and skiers. But it's a lonely life if you're a single mechanic, driving the long kilometres between isolated farms. This new pick-up will make all the difference.

She gives me the key and I unlock it. I clamber into the driver's position, push the seat back, adjust the mirrors. She takes off her coat, places it in the back then eases into the passenger seat beside me. What a contrast we make: me, the burly worker in my blue overalls and heavy boots; her, petite .. and of course I can't help noticing her enticing shoulder-length curls, her short peasant-style dress, and silky black tights.

I concentrate as she runs me through the complex controls. She has the soft local accent, it's cute.

Will she be my point of contact going forward? I consider the matter but on balance I doubt it. Chamonix is such a small place, there are no good servicing facilities here. I resign myself to a yearly trek across the mountains back to the dealers.

“I suppose I won't be seeing you again,” I say, as she finishes up.

She looks at me appraisingly.

“You could.”

---

I asked ChatGPT to write a similar-length story, but this time from the woman's point of view. Here it is...

---

From ChatGPT

I’m waiting for him in the nearly deserted car park, glancing around and shivering as a bitter wind sweeps down from the mountains. My thick green parka is supposed to be warm, but still the cold bites through. I pull the fur-lined hood tighter around my face, my gaze wandering to the peaks in the distance. There’s just one truck parked here, the new one he’s coming to collect. Finally, I see him—a tall, sturdy figure in a blue mechanic's jumpsuit—making his way toward me.

It’s not a short drive from Grenoble to Chamonix. Most locals prefer taking the train, but for me, the dealership's truck had been the only sensible option. I had driven it here, right to the edge of town, to save him the journey down into the valley. He looks at the truck with something like relief, maybe even a hint of pride. If I’ve learned anything in this job, it’s how much these small townsfolk treasure their vehicles. In the Haute-Savoie, those long drives on mountain roads are a lonely business. For a single man, a mechanic like him, a reliable truck is probably a lifeline.

I hand him the key, and he nods in thanks before climbing in to get a feel for it. I watch as he adjusts the seat and mirrors, a faint look of satisfaction settling on his face as he takes in the interior. Silently, I remove my coat and lay it in the back, sliding into the passenger seat beside him.

We’re a mismatched pair. He’s rugged and serious, with work boots that look like they’ve seen a few rough winters. I wonder what he must think of me: my curls escaping around my face, my wool dress and tights, not at all suited to this hard life in the mountains. But he’s all business, his focus entirely on the controls.

In a calm voice, I start explaining the features. The equipment in this truck is a bit complex, but he seems to pick it up quickly. It’s easy to like his attention to detail, the way he asks the right questions with a soft, measured tone. He’s observant, but not much for small talk, though I catch a faint hint of curiosity in his eyes as he listens to my accent. It’s local, familiar, though softened, as my mother likes to say.

The session ends almost too soon. When I finish, he sits quietly for a moment, as if debating something.

“I suppose I won’t be seeing you again,” he says finally, glancing my way.

I look at him for a long moment, weighing his words. There's no reason I can’t be his point of contact. I could offer it. But part of me wonders if he’s really asking for that.

“You could,” I say, a little smile tugging at the corner of my lips.