Home > write365. > Day 16: the time slips away.

Day 16: the time slips away.

Stuck to the bumper, it reads: My other car’s a piece of shit too. This olive jalopy Ford, split-pea soup not split enough. 1950s and the door rattles open, far beyond the creak of the decrepit. The long seat is leather and it is a wonder if it was ever tanned. Sour, dusty concoction of age—and beneath that the smell of things spilled and sex and things spilled during that. Rough seams coming undone. Two glasses stacked one in the other set in the crook between the passenger door and the seat rank with the memory of curdled milk. A newspaper dated from the sixties on the floor and hardly legible but for the Washington Post. Set on the dashboard under a coat of a furlike dust, a child’s fingerpainting. Primary colors look dimly through the layer of negligence atop it. The owner, a man in a tractor hat and flannel, walks heavystepped down the pathway. His white featherdown hair sticks out from his cap and he is cleanshaven. A smile plays lightly on his face. He says, Doan bother now, doan bother—ye can do bettern that, I reckon.

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