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The Ford Taurus had a kick with bite.
Despite his job producing an intimate knowledge of cars, Clay was not an enthusiast. The car shows that Rolf had dragged him to had never appealed, set beneath the stinking heat of a dry sun and the musk of fellow attendants. Neither had the idea of shooting down the highway, pushing both the limits of speed and the car itself. It had been Brock who had taken interest in both. Though Clay begrudgingly tagged along and watched, he had resisted active participation.
After years of his Datsun, Clay's leg ached with the effort of hovering above the gas pedal. Anything more than a delicate tap left him at the mercy of 140 horsepower. He could feel the cars thrum of urgency echoing as he gripped the steering wheel. His jaw was locked and body taut, as if he needed every inch of himself engaged to keep focused.
Thankfully even for someone as skittish as Clay, the Taurus handled well and it did not take too long for him to adapt. Still, he nursed reverence for the car's raw power. He could see why Brock had been so head over heels. What had he named it? Lola or Betsy, something like that. He had thought he was being funny.
Clay pathed the streets of Spindler Hills from memory alone.
The sun had been sucked from the sky, it's last rays dwindling on the horizon. Spindler came alive around him. Windows glowed with cheap bulbs or the flicker of tvs. By the side of the road, teenagers peddled on rusty push bikes, balancing brown paper bags against handlebars.
Stoneway Drive was a street he knew by reputation.
It sat in the lone gated community of Spindler Hills, an oasis stark against the flat plains of Spindler. Here the few residents of affluence and upper-middle class wealth sheltered behind pale painted concrete walls. Two-storey houses jutted from the earth, varying shades of off-white and creamy beige accented with dark trimmings. Their lawns shone green as emeralds and not a single crack marred the smooth surface of the pavements.
His only dalliance with the other side of the fence, as it was colloquially known, had been with a girl. He had been a speck of dirt on the welcome mat, something that neglected to be cleaned. Once spotted, he had been swept away with the rest of the grime, forgotten and discarded. It was far from Romeo and Juliet, that would have required some love lost. No, Clay had been a fleeting spectacle, a presence known by few and whispered by many. He doubted she could even recall his face now, let alone his name.
