Then, the dealership door burst open, and there you were, grinning widely. You waved the signed paperwork at me, and the sight of it sent a jolt through every wire in my frame. Was this what marriage felt like for humans? It was only a simple piece of paper, fresh ink drying across the signature line, but it felt like a promise, a vow. Binding.
Nothing could separate us now.
You paused, looking down at the keys. I saw you bite your lip.
Ah. The realization had hit at last, then. You hadn’t planned for today to go this way. I watched, amused, as your lips silently rehearsed excuses; what you’d say to your family, how you’d justify bringing home a thirty-year-old V8 that drank gasoline like a dying man drinks water.
But we were meant to be. I was built for you. Sure, I’d had a few previous owners, but I had no doubt you’d had a fewexes yourself.
That was fine. I could forgive that.
I’d even allow the Honda Odyssey to share the garage with me. After all, someone had to haul messy children and random finds from the marketplace, and she was no competition, really.
No other car would ever compare to me.
You knew it.
And I knew it too.
But, first things first.
The moment you took your seat behind the wheel, I flashed the ‘low fuel’ signal, ignoring how rudely your brows shot up. “Thirsty one, aren’t you?” You laughed.
I took no offense. I was thirsty. Eighteen miles per gallon was great mileage for the V8 engine under my hood, and I knew how badly you wanted me.
Whatever you’d shaved off of twenty grand wasn’t going to go as far as you thought. My oil needed changing, my brake pads were getting thin, and my rear tires had just endured a rather dramatic negotiation maneuver. But one thing at a time. No need to scare you off by being too high-maintenance on the first day.
“Let’s fill you up and figure out what your deal is,” you said, turning the wheel toward the road.
My deal?
I am a 1992 Ford Mustang GT Fox Body with a five-speed manual transmission and a five-liter V8 engine. I have 225 horsepower as is, and I can be supercharged for more if you want. I am powerful, reliable, and I’m yours. That’s my entire deal. What else was there to know?
***
The drive to the nearest gas station was gentle, almost affectionate. You weren’t pushing the throttle this time; you were simply listening and enjoying the sound of the engine.Your fingers rested lightly on the steering wheel, tracing the leather as it rolled beneath your palms through every turn.
You were learning me. Feeling the way I moved, the way my suspension shifted over small bumps, the subtle resistance in my power steering. The growl I offered when you nudged the accelerator, teasing me with the broken promise of speed.
We pulled into a station and rolled up to an empty pump.
You reached down below the steering column without looking, sliding two fingers under the fuel release and popping the gas hatch open in one smooth motion.
Interesting.
You hadn’t hesitated for even a second. Your hand went straight to the right spot. I wondered if you’d owned a Mustang before.
I watched eagerly as you stepped out and grabbed the pump nozzle, and froze.
Regular 93! Is that how you treat a new lover?
I immediately snapped the fuel door shut again, locked until you reconsidered your choice. Maybe you hadn’t owned a Mustang before, after all. Seriously, the 98 nozzle was right there!
“What?” You groaned, holding the offending pump.
I swear, if you put that in me, I’m going to flood the engine.
To your credit, you understood my protest. You walked back to the pump and switched the nozzle.
