“Awww come on Greta, don’t be like that,” I murmur as I pull my right foot off the gas, turn the key back, breath and crank it forward again.
“Vrrmm vrmmm mmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” she responds.
I love this car. She’s 10 years old and an interesting color green-a soft kinda teal green. I’m her third owner and I’d say that the relationship is good. She’s an old M3–with a sport gear, but I don’t go there because she’s so sensitive about her age and her younger years.
When the light goes from red to green, though, I do my best to make her feel young again. Especially when we’re the first in line. She takes a second to pick up, but she’s German and heavy and so the speed, when reached, is retained in her body as she barrels forward like a dozen Arabian steeds. We fly by other cars, unaware. Just me and her and some Mushroom Jazz.
She’s rigged up alright, and loved. Her interior like new, hardly a dent on her body … just a few suggestions of parking lot mishaps.
Once in a while I sense the ghosts of her former owners–eight years ago, say, pulling up to show her off to anyone, a wife, a child’s schoolmates or a Ramadan gathering.
These days, I show her off but not as a shiny new button so much as the old-school, unique expression of driving pleasure that she is.
Aint no car in the lot like Greta and something tells me there never was.