Mel was impressed at the sight, mainly for the wrong reasons. The car, a ’82 Ford Fiesta, had certainly seen better days. With a few small dents here and there, a few minor scratches and signs of rust around the wheels, it resembled its owner; juvenile, rough on the edges, with a European flair to it, defiant, rebellious, yet cute and loveable.
Matt opened the passenger door for Mel and invited her in.
‘So Mel, what do you think, the pinnacle of class and sophistication, eh?’
‘Reminds me of you,’ she replied all giggly.
‘It’s all I can afford at the moment,’ he had replied embarrassed.
Immediately, Mel pushed up the lock under the window and made as if she was about to open the door and get out of the car.
‘What are you doing?’ Matt feared his battered, little, un-American car had scared her off.
‘You see, I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to ride in the car or help you push it.’
Repeatedly and ruthlessly cruel.
Has another day passed?
Just an hour?
He couldn’t care less. There is no way of knowing, so why bother?