acquired taste.

The car was idling, five litres of engine throbbing, the air around vibrated. American muscle, 1998, gunmetal black. Tinted windows, I saw my face reflected as I tried to look inside. It was only the pink rear licence plate frame that gave you away.
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Then you floored it, the engine revving up in first, shrieking to a pitch, then second, roaring, into third with a blast, thundering into fourth and out of sight.
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By then the car’s noise faded into the the crickets’ mating calls. Incidentally, not much different from the rumble my fridge gives off when the compressor starts.