the road!” Maya yells, as car wheels shriek.
It’s a good thing Beemers are the ultimate driving machines.
After I convince the nice old man that we don’t need to exchange insurance information, Maya remembers an important appointment with her living room. I drive, very cautiously, to her house.
“So?” I ask when we get there, and her color looks normal again. “What do you think? Of the car?”
“It’s…really a BMW,” she says.
“1974 was the first year they made square taillights,” I say proudly. Bobby told me.
“Great,” she says, unimpressed.
Can’t she be a tiny bit excited? This is the first car I’ve ever bought for myself. It may not be a Passat, or even a Jetta, but it’s mine and I’m determined to love it.
“It’s great,” she repeats, with a little more enthusiasm. “It’s zippy, it’s fun and Beemers are suppose to run forever.”
“Thank you.”
“And the color doesn’t bother you?”
Okay. It’s bright orange—almost a perfect match for the architect’s hair—with a black interior that gives it the appearance of a low-budget float in a Halloween parade.
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