summer days

I have an olde car. It has no air-conditioning, no seatbelts, no stereo-surround. It does have an engine, for which I am grateful.

Driving back in the heat is awful. I sweat, I curse, I honk at poor pedestrians, I drive like a mad woman (is there any other kind of female driving, you may ask).

I stopped at a red light today and turned around to catch a glimpse of a Demi-God in a his heaven-mobile.
He wore a freshly starched white shirt, his tie loosened, hair slightly ruffled, dark glasses, a suitcase carelessly placed on the leather upholstery of a sleek Mercedes S-class. He sat back relaxed, one hand casually on the steering wheel, fingers drumming to an inaudible music, exuding Cool.

I must have been quite a picture - beads of sweat on my forehead, matted hair, a red flush on a badly tanned face, exhaust smoke blurring any pretty features.

The gap between the Haves and the Can I have him? has never been wider