I Don't Have To Sell My Soul

Wanna... wanna... wanna...

Flash.

Flash.

Run.

The problem isn't the flashers.

It's the running.


* * *

The car broke down.

This wasn't an unusual event. But it was painful every time it happened.

And it only happened in the rain.

So the battery slipped. And the headlights drooped.

And the car rolled to a stop.

In a bad neighborhood. Surrounded by worse neighborhoods.

And she smiled. Because that always helped.

And she put her hand on the dashboard.

Closed her eyes.

Spoke softly. To the car.

Then told me to turn the key.

And it started. Immediately.


* * *

The car lasted longer than we did.

It limped and stalled and creeped into the next decade. The next century.

She moved into a bigger and better neighborhood. Drove a newer car.

One that never had problems.


* * *

She called. She called and it rained.

And the car must somehow have known she called.

Even though it wasn't even the same car.

Maybe she has that power over all cars.

This time it wasn't the battery. The lights still worked. It just wouldn't start.

And I pulled it over to the curb. And turned on the flashers.

But she didn't call for that.

She didn't call to put her hands on the dashboard. Or whisper sweet incantations to the car.

And I listened. For a moment.

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

And I knew it wasn't the night to sit there.

Flash.

It wasn't the night to call AAA and be calm.

Flash.

It wasn't the night for quiet listening.

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

It was the kind of night --

Flash.

When all you can do --

Flash --

Is. (Flash) Run.