By Jeffrey A. Paolano
My sick, damaged heart emotes through my hands, and I strangle the leather-swathed wheel of this soulless machine.
“Care for a drive? Handles beautiful,” coaxes the salesman, inveigling me towards a decision as his twaddle grates on my fragile, butchered nerves.
I’m dolefully fixated, can’t think of anything except for my recently deceased brother. How he towed a ’52 Chevy behind his buddy’s car with a chain, dangerous as hell. His loving devotion as he dismantled the car, with replacement parts salvaged from junk yards, by hands gouged, frozen, and abraded.
My composure repossessed, my attention blithely returns to the salesman’s drivel.
Interesting musings. Could write a longer version of this. Want to know more. Thanks for the story.
Ms. Patterson:
You’re quite welcome.
Jeff
Terrific imagery here. Will keep my eyes peeled for more of your writing.