Dean

The dark leather absorbs the sun's warmth and turns it into a searing heat that sticks to my skin and burns.  After the first few painful moments, however, my body adjusts to the new temperature and even welcomes the warmth that seeps inside it.

The paint is not a garish or particularly striking color.  It does not exude confidence and power as would vibrant red or sleek black.  It is a fairly neutral light blue, not quite baby blue but more of a cresting wave blue, with that slight sheen of green.  It exactly matches me —not wanting to stand out but desiring a quiet uniqueness.

The new, smooth black leather replaced a synthetic aquamarine interior that was stained by tobacco smoke and years of dirt tracked in by many pairs of feet and grubby hands.  I spent an afternoon with The Beatles, scrubbing the sides and ceiling free of stains and grime, spraying Febreeze generously as I sang Hey Jude with Paul.  It was satisfying work, with a visible reward.  And then all the freshly scrubbed aquamarine was torn out.  But it smelled nice.

My favorite feature, next to the power of a V8 beneath my accelerator, is the slide of the thin, leather-wrapped wheel across my palms.  The wheel is enormous, nearly touching my knees as I sit comfortably in my seat—the driver's seat.  I steer with my left hand, while my right rests in my lap.  This is my place, my personal mobile haven.  My car takes me where I want to go, away from stress for a moment, away from a troubled mind.

This is my 1966 Ford Mustang.  His name is Dean.

<3 Mel