Beast

Black as a raven. Smooth as a bullet. Eight cylinders hiding under the hood. Twin turbos. 600 horses, 550 pounds of torque. Napa leather, red as Friday night lipstick. And the way it growls, oh the way it growls: guttural, primal, pure disdain! Always parked facing the street, ready to launch. Sure, she knew cars like this existed. Maybe, in the estates of Gleneagles, or Summer ridge, or Queens Gardens, certainly not in her neighborhood. Not in the parking pads of semi detached homes, 3 bedrooms, one and a half baths, 2 jobs, 2 kids, 1 Labrador. The land of CRVs, Pilots and MDXs, blazers and explorers and suburbans. Q7s and Carolas. Sure, there is the pink Bentley. Everybody knows the pink Bentley. And, yes, a smattering of porshes: boxster, 911 and two cayennes. But this beast? It did not belong here.