It was a day threatening to rain more than the dabbles on our deck. It was also the day prior to a haircut… So I selected my orange fedora, blonde wisps peeking askew when I placed it atop my head. I got in my Mini Cooper to drive the freeway on errands. Zippety-do-dah is my car’s name, Zip for short.
A red Ferrari, top down to show its sunglass-bespectacled driver with not a hair out-of-place, tucked in behind me; his car’s turn was second at the freeway access light. Do you think he minded being bested by a toy?
We sashayed across the multiple freeway lanes, his arm waving me over when I doubled down by turning my head rather than rely upon rear view. Like most cars, Mini Cooper’s have a rear quarter panel blind spot, and I didn’t want to meet this man via his insurance and driver’s license info, chaperoned by a cop.
Hm-m-n. Wonder why he didn’t allow his testosterone to take over and leave me in the still-arid air’s dust, as I pressed the accelerator to my habitual 80 mph.
Oh yeah, his Ferrari, while not quite arrest-me-red in hue, was a cop’s ticket magnet. He was following at a safe distance, perhaps subscribing to the myth that any mild-mannered and coy blonde can talk her way out of a ticket.
Which I did.
P.S. His license plate, as he sped by me with a smile, was from Montana. Cowboys ride different horses these days, red ones that giddy-yup-ha!
P.S. #2 He ended his ride to park in front of the 99¢ Store. As I watched him stroll into the store, maintaining my patient smile for the officer, I wondered what a well-heeled cowboy would be purchasing in there. Whaddayathink?