I sit in a dark room all day long.
In winter, it is cold, and I can feel icy shafts of air that ebb around my rubbery feet. In summer, it is so hot I wonder my feet don’t melt. I nap with my nose pressed up against a tire.
Now that I am growing old I don’t get out so much. My companions appear and disappear more frequently than I. My immediate companions are pleasant enough. They bide quietly on either side of me and don’t take up more than their fair share of space. The one to the left however, owns a person who thinks it’s neat to park on a diagonal. He claims he does it to miss a pillar. But I think he likes scooting near my fanny.
The companions I hate most are large, high and noisy. When their pets get into them, they roar, belch and lurch, leaving behind a deafening silence as the garage door lowers gently to thankfully hide them from view.
The other day, my pet took me out to have my coat re-done. Rust-colored patches have been appearing on my dark-green exterior. I knew what was going to happen, because I could hear him talking about it. I tried to stall things by well, stalling. When that didn’t work, I tried a little lurching myself. I didn’t want a new coat of paint! I like my dignified dark-green with a gold-stripe up the side. It is suitable for an old lady like myself. Was my owner going to paint me red?
I should have known better. My pet grew up in an art school. I came out of my ordeal with…a dark green color and gold stripe. I looked exactly the same as before, a shade lighter and sans patches.
My pet calls me Heloise and I am a ten-year-old Honda Accord.
–Cynthia Haggard writes short stories, novels and poetry. During the day, she is a medical writer and has recently opened her own business. For more on her creative writing, go to spunstories. For more about her medical writing services, go to clarifyingconcepts. (c) 2008. All rights reserved.