It’s a car. Four wheels and a convertible top that used to work with the press of a button. When the motor failed I didn’t bother to fix it. Instead I operated it manually, standing in the backseat and yanking whenever I needed to close the roof. The radio is factory, the speakers shot. Whether I’m playing Elton John or Jay-Z, the music comes out with all the clarity of a drunk Muppet speaking Bulgarian.
The turn signals don’t even work right. You have to hold them down exactly halfway or risk being rewarded with an ear-splitting whine.
It’s a car and I’ll find another one. So why am I crying as I list it for sale?
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Adam loves the car. He loves the challenge of navigating with the side mirrors, tossing down the top with one hand. The radio’s corny graphic equalizer makes him laugh. I always felt comfortable letting him drive my car. It just felt right.
I haven’t spoken to him in three weeks.
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2 comments:
Hi there,
Just stumbled upon your blog - I like it!
Thank you! :)
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