I’m not paying attention to the drift in the wheel. The rumble strips graze the tire walls. Small shake of the head. Rub the face.
The off-ramp is caked with commuters patiently spacing themselves and zippering to repay a smile someone gave them earlier.
My old grey Mazda idles comfortably. One hundred and fourteen miles logged, eight years old. Corroded pock-marks on the hood. The center consol is scratched. Chip in the windshield. She’s well worn but she’s mine.
A bright new black BMW pulls up beside me. Signal on, stuffing itself to the right. I look at myself in the polished reflection and wish I had more of everything.
The driver wears expensive sunglasses. Scratch resistant lenses, warranty plan, the works. He checks his phone at the stop-light. He has somewhere important or at least large to be.
Then, just as jealousy takes a hold of my hand, a God damn Maserati pulls out in front of him! Are you kidding me? Who drives a freaking Maserati in Pittsburgh??? That’s like a hundred thousand dollar car…
The sunglasses shield the man’s hungry eyes. His mouth just open enough to allow a little envy through. And his beautiful sedan starts to shrink.
I look back to my familiar dash, a little dusty, the digital odometer missing a line on the four. I pat her on the head and give it a little gas.