She whizzed around the corner fast enough for the tires to squeal. The car, a candy-apple red convertible, drifted sideways through the intersection. Far behind, the wail of a police siren split the dusty air.
She laughed as the car regained its traction and shot off on its new course. She looked in the rear-view mirror just in time to see the cop car miss the turn and roll over as it smashed through a fruit stand. She waited for it, with only an occasional glance at the road in front of her. Eventually she saw what she was looking for, and laughed again.
It was a universal constant that a car smashing into a fruit stand would inevitably result in a single wheel being ejected from the crash site.
She adjusted her aviator sunglasses in the mirror, puckered her lips, and blew herself a kiss before returning her attention to the road in front of her. It was empty, and straight as an arrow for as far as she could see. It ran directly east into the mountains and the sunrise.
The air whipped around the 1965 Mustang and blew her hair back. Were it a hollywood extravaganza, there’d be an appropriate soundtrack, and of course, license plate with her name on it. As it was, the only sound was the wind blowing past her ears and the whine of the engine as it thrust the car into the future a second at a time.
The speedometer was locked at 120 miles per hour. Life fell away behind her, every mile taking her further from her broken heart.
Her cell phone rang, startling her out of her reverie. She glanced at it, rolled her eyes, and flipped it’s sleekness open.
“What.” she stated flatly into the mouthpiece.
She listened
“No, I’m not coming home.”
She looked at the phone, then tossed it up into the slipstream.
She pushed the pedal to the floor, and the car managed one more burst of acceleration. The car pulled her away from her past and into the desert.
Mmmm.
I like.
I imagine the phone smashing into tiny plastic confetti, and the person on the receiving end, well, receiving.