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She looks good.
I exit the car and walk around to open the passenger side to retrieve her gift.
She meets me at the step.
“Hi. You look beautiful. This is for you,” I say.
She looks down at the contraption in my hand.
“A fire extinguisher?” she states.
“Um, yeah. I didn’t know if you had one, and everybody should have a working extinguisher in their kitchen. Just in case,” I say.
She laughs as she takes the cylinder.
“I’ll go put this in some water and be right back,” she jokes.
“I’m sorry. It’s not very romantic.”
“No, I love it. Flowers are so cliché. I’d much rather a man spend his money on something I can use. I’ll just put this away, and we can go.”
She disappears behind the front door and reemerges with her purse. She locks the door and makes her way down the front steps to the driveway, where I am waiting with the passenger door open.
“Love the wheels. Very sexy,” she says as she slides into the seat.
“Thanks,” I reply.
Once I’m seated back behind the steering wheel, she starts asking me a million questions about the car.
“Is this original?” she asks as she smooths her hand over the woodgrain interior panel.
“It sure is.”
“Did you buy it like this?”
I shake my head. “No. When I bought it, it was a busted-up mess. I spent a lot of time chasing down authentic parts and having the leather seats recovered. Graham and I spent an entire summer restoring her to her former glory,” I explain.
“Wow, you guys did a great job. How fast will she go?” she asks.
I hit the gas and shift to the highest gear. We fly around the curvy mountain road like a rocket.
“Whoa,” she squeals. “What have you got in this engine?”
“A seven-liter Hemi V8 transmission that can put down around four hundred twenty-five horsepower and four hundred ten pounds of torque.”
Her eyes go wide. “I think I just had an orgasm.”
I cough at her comment.
“You all right there, big boy?” she asks as she starts to pound on my upper back.
“Fine,” I choke out.
Susanna hates this car. She can’t drive a stick and gets annoyed at having to use a handle and manually roll down the window or adjust the seats. She prefers a car loaded with electronic conveniences, GPS guidance, and Bluetooth capability. She would roll her eyes and groan anytime I suggested taking the Challenger out for an afternoon drive on the Blue Ridge Parkway.
“You like classic cars, huh?” I inquire.
“I like classic everything. Cars, motorcycles, boats, you name it. They just don’t build machines the way they used to. Everything you buy nowadays is fiberglass trash that you have to replace every two years. And don’t get me started on computerized engines. I remember when my uncle Joe could fix anything on wheels. You could change your own oil or give your car a tune-up. Basically, you could do all the maintenance with a set of wrenches and a little knowledge. Now, you have to take your car to a damn dealership and pay a fortune just to change the battery. It’s ridiculous. And since when is silence the gauge for quality? No one appreciates the hum of a powerful motor anymore. Even bikes are getting quieter. You should be able to hear the rumble of a Harley from a half-mile away,” she rattles off.
