No, but she really is.
What I noticed first were the pop up headlights and faded red paint. She rumbled throaty and low, rolling up to the stop sign. Though she must have been a glorious 80s muscle car in her day, the old girl was looking beat up and mean.
I noticed the car as I was crossing the opposite side of the intersection. My dog, Gracie, sailed along at my side, alert and observant, far more interested in the people walking up ahead than the traffic.
But my horrified attention was glued to the car.
Dirty windows rolled down.
Country tunes bumping.
A hairy male forearm hanging out the passenger window and holding on to the roof, trucker style.
The shabby old relic blew off the stop line and swerved across the cross walk that Gracie and I had just cleared.
Despite my love of old cars and uexcessive acceleration, I cringed as the beast rolled by. I tried not to listen to the rough, swaggering voices I heard as the two twenty-something men inside shouted over their music.
But suddenly I realized they were talking to me.
Took my mind a moment to sort out their message, but after that split second, I turned to them, smiled, and waved to my newfound friends.
"Your dog's adorable!" is what they had said.
No comments:
Post a Comment