Robin Egg Blue

It sits there in the shade beneath the mesquite tree where the dealer said he would put it so it would be cool when I came to take a look at it. "Sits" maybe isn't the right verb. Crouching maybe. Ready-to-pounce for sure. It looked animated, the lines speaking speed. This was not a comfort car, nor was it a quiet commuter. Metal flake shade shifting paint, low profile tires, gold rims, air scoop, fairing (that actually worked) on the trunk. It likely could go twice the speed limit of most highways, maybe the interstate. It was everything I shouldn't be: irresponsible, sensational, imprudent. But it was a burr in my brain, an image I couldn't shake. It was my version of Peter Fonda's Captain America chopper in Easy Rider. We know how that turned out. Flirting with disaster feels fine as I lean over a dizzying precipice.