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.
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.
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.
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