It was cold, but we had the t-top down. My hair whipped into my face, but I kept my eyes open despite the lash and sting of split ends. The sun was setting behind us, a perfect disk at the end of the road as we raced into the night. All the road signs blazed copper, fire, sparks in the light and you couldn’t read the speed limit. We didn’t care about the speed limit. He broke the rear end loose around the corner, and I followed along in the passenger’s seat the quick shifts up from first, second, third, all the way up into fifth down the street. It’s a different kind of awareness you have as a passenger when you know how to drive it– my knee extended to press an imaginary clutch as his hand shifted the stick gear to gear. I didn’t have to look to know the engine’s RPM, the moment to downshift as we turned onto our street. Fire left the sky as we pulled into the driveway, cats scurrying from the warmth of the concrete and under the cracked door of the garage.
We laud these excesses, so American. Code for freedom (of the white, the moneyed). It is decadence. There are kittens to quiet: they will yowl their outrage at the interruption. I think we owe them an apology.