She was driving ninety-five miles an hour again. She knows I hate it when she goes that fast. I’ve tried to tell her to slow down, but she never listens. I knew she was trouble from the moment I saw her, walking into the dealership in her ruby stilettos and short skirt. She practically had the dealer eating out of the palm of her hand. It was disgusting. An hour later, he placed the keys into her hand. My keys. I’ve hated her ever since.
This time, when she stuck the keys into the ignition, I refused to start. She called in service technician after service technician, and I started up perfectly for them. But the moment she slipped on her ruby heels and slid into my seat, nothing worked. She’d cajole me, she’d threaten me, she’d scream obscenities. But for once, I had the upper hand.
If she doesn’t learn to listen soon, I’ll wrap us around a tree.
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