American River Review 2022 - copy - Flipbook - Page 51
Carnel Desire
By Patti Santucci
She has that new car smell. Turn
the ignition and she purrs, hungry
to take you somewhere you’ve never
been. Heads turn. Long stares. What
a looker. Your posture straightens,
knowing folks wonder how you attained such a beauty. Admittedly, you
too have spent hours admiring her
under the summer sun.
It does not take long before you
come to sense her movements, her
strengths – the connection so strong,
you sometimes can’t tell where you
end and she begins. There’s laughter
in the wind, a shared poignancy in
those sharp turns, a mutual trust.
Over the years, you push her. But
in a good way. She has out-performed
those predictable expectations, dangerously racing ahead upon request.
You are surprised when she breaks
down and assure her she will get
all the help she needs. While she’s
gone, you miss her more than you
should. You call three times to make
sure she’s all right. When she’s ready,
you pick her up. Handle her ever so
gently on the way home.
But something changes in the weeks
to come. She doesn’t have the same
enthusiasm. Always stalling. Wanting to remain in the comfort of
home. She often seems on the verge
of breaking down and you have to
handle her so carefully that the fun of
being together feels like work.
You don’t give up on her, though.
The two of you have been through so
much. You give her some space. Let
her stay home when it is cold. Or hot.
Or windy.
You spend a fortune, giving in to
her demands. Even allowing for some
body work to be done. But she is ungrateful. You can see that now.
Every time you look at her, resentment bubbles and you take to walking to the local tavern while she sits
home and pouts.
She leaves you stranded on I-5. After all you’ve done for her, she won’t
even turn over.
Through no fault of your own, you
end up with a replacement model
while she remains in the shop, milking you dry. The new model requires
little, responds to your touch, anticipates your moves, invites you to relax
and enjoy the ride.
Once she’s better, you drive her
home but she is stiff, unyielding,
fighting you at every turn as if she
can sense you’ve been cheating on
her. Which you have. Test driving
models left and right while she’s been
away.
You pay cash for a remote cabin
just outside Fort Bragg, under the
guise of a planned get-a-way. Of
course, with all the lazing around
she’s been doing, she’s in no shape
for the trip and overheats. You baby
her. Wait for her to cool down.
You drive past the cabin. Force her
up the steep hill that overlooks the
water. Stand at the edge and survey
the landscape. The moon is low. The
hoot of an owl echoes across the water before flying away. Only the pines
stand at attention as you turn back
toward that accusing stare from her
headlights.
You remove all the other keys from
your ring and start her up. She sputters. Ever complaining. You force her
into a neutral position.
You think about the insurance
money.
The whistling sound, as she struggles for her air intake, pleases you.
You push her into drive and step
away. She rolls forward, slowly at
first. Gravity increases her momentum. Lord knows, she’d never move
that fast unless forced.
Her front-end stumbles over the
edge and you find it amusing as her
large backside hangs in the air.
You walk cliffside. Watch her fall,
ass over tea kettle, into the surf. You
don’t leave until the sea has swallowed her whole.
On your peaceful walk back to the
cabin, you breath in freedom and
think about your next model. Something faster this time. Maybe even
topless.
After all, none of them are built to
last.
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