Richard stared at the car before him. It was dark grey, the swooping curves of its bodywork meeting the ground at wheels that seemed an extension of its beauty in their own right rather than a Neolithic invention, dark centres that hummed in the same colour as the paintwork and rimmed in gleaming silver.
He paced slowly around it, admiring the way the clouds from the overcast day were reflected in shapes and shadows to his appreciative, stunned eyes.
This was altogether something else to anything in his garage.
It called to him with a feeling deep in his chest that it would caress him, thrill him, if he gave it the attention and just that little bit of effort to send them both flying, howling to wherever the wind went. The lettering on its rear – flirty, promising a flirt with disaster – spelled out the dream of his that he’d harboured for years and years.
It was a brand new nine eleven.
He wasn’t sure that it deserved a name, yet. Although clearly infinitely charismatic, maybe this machine was all in the doing, rather than the thinking.
Like the way that you drive with your feet and hands rather than your speedo when you go on tracks. Or anywhere without speed cameras, really. This car was all about being and not about considering the meaning of it.
Richard took the keys and the final invoice from the hovering salesman and turned away, papers sticking out of his back pocket and keys twirling around his index finger.
He and the car were gone in a heartbeat.
Sweeping lines and always gone…