Every other time, he had come back.  
But that day he didn’t.
We’d arrived as usual, and he’d parked me in a shabby little brick-built garage.
I didn’t know why we were there. It wasn’t my business to ask.
I just did what I needed to do, and waited patiently for him to come back.
He’d always come back. Till that day.
As he carefully checked my windows, then locked my doors, he chatted his usual to me.
‘Be a good girl,’ he said.
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said.
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,’ he said, chuckling as he padlocked the garage behind me.
As was usual, my engine cooled and I stilled into fumy silence. I didn’t much like being shut away in these claustrophobic garages, full of my own emissions. But it’s part of the life of being a vehicle. We’re used and left, used and left. But not normally like this.
The year was 1997.
The place was Frankfurt, Germany.
And my owner, driver and friend, was Torsten, a 56 year old man who had loved and cared for me. We’d spent the previous ten years together.
But Torsten didn’t come back. I was alone for 20 years, in the dark.
In those years I’ve changed a lot. What used to be my gleaming paintwork is no longer that way. I’m dulled, rusting and crusted.
I wasn’t even searched for, but was found by accident.
As the garage door opened for the first time in forever, I awakened with a tremor of excitement. Was it Torsten? Finally I’d be back on the road again.   
Torsten was informed that I wasn’t stolen after all. Torsten was 76 years old when he got that call. He was alive and well, and had forgotten all about me.
But I hadn’t forgotten about him.
My heart ached. But it didn’t take long for my rescuers to break it properly.
After checking me out, I was told it was scrap heap time. My engine, already broken, camouflaged the slivers of my broken heart, and I went to the scrap heap willingly. I was more than ready.
This story was inspired by an article I saw in a children’s magazine about a man being reunited with his car 20 years after he reported it as stolen.  It was found in the lockup garage where he left it.


How many oxymorons can you spot?

The Ford Focus was accustomed to frenetic activity taking place on its back seat. 

It was an open secret among the residents living adjacent to Springwood Common that the sweet agony of lovemaking was carried out regularly within its confines.   The common was famous for it, in fact: the weirdly normal behaviour of its usual nightly clientele proved loud enough was loud enough to wake up the dead.  Complaints to the council fell upon deaf ears. 

That night a small crowd of the usual suspects gathered around the dark light of the Focus’s interior.  The quiet presence of the two car-dwellers brought painfully beautiful lovemaking into the lives of those awfully lucky few who gathered enthusiastically around the Focus to view Daria and Roger’s horizontal activities. 

The female of this partnership was awfully pretty, that was generally accepted, but the male was the least favourite of all Springwood Common’s doggers.  Roger’s appearance sadly showed a noticeable absence of attractive features.  Indeed, any comments on that subject would likely lead to a deafening silence.  Roger was pretty ugly.  So, while Daria’s appreciative audience was perpetually increasing, Roger’s fan base was definitely growing smaller by the day.  Once or twice, the dogging viewers would comment to him that he should allow his wife to be serviced by a member of the crowd, or at least to cut out his heavy diet to become more pleasing to the eye.  Cruel to be kind, the crowd members would say.  

Roger would do no such thing.  He had multiple misgivings about sharing the view of he and his wife’s back-seat lovemaking with whoever could get a view of the car, but he knew that Daria was clearly confused about the realities of their relationship.  The only time she was prepared to be alone together with him, was during these public sex acts, and he found her otherwise to be a pretty cruel partner with a multitude of passive aggressive comments and actions.  So Roger’s only choice, if he was to continue in their relationship (which was by turns, amazingly awful and awfully good) was to act naturally and accept that pain for pleasure was required.  But he hated it.   It was a true myth that all men love sex and all women require forcing into it.  In their case, Daria was what she referred to as a “disgustingly delicious sex addict” who would give a definitely maybe reply to any man or woman who approached her with lascivious intent.  But Roger was a romantic man.  He cared deeply and felt deeply.  They were no happy tears that ran slowly down his cheeks when he was forced to be viewed in this way.

“Stop being a big baby,” Daria sneered.   Roger wished he could appear invisible to the taunts and comments of wife and audience, but he was stuck in the back of his car.  This virtual reality he was forced to accept was killing him.  Living dead? Walking dead?  Yes to both.  The relationship with his wife was like worthless gold to him, and vice versa.  Suddenly, Daria pushed her husband away from Roger’s his game attempts to ‘perform’.  She could be pretty fierce like that, when disappointed. 

“Go away,” she said.  “I require a voracious lover, not a jumbo shrimp of a man.  How do you guys…” (she motioned in the direction of the entranced audience collected round the car) “…fancy lining up in some random order for back-seat fun?”.

Roger’s farewell reception came from the jeering, nasty throng who were lining up for Daria’s body, but he was fine with that.  He had already recovered his unsteady composure.  He knew where he wanted to be.  He knew where he would go.  He would visit a young middle-aged lady he knew rather well.  She appreciated his love handles and his double chins.  She liked him for what he was.  She wouldn’t force him to perform like a circus animal.  Daria was history.  Asexual, friendly, sweet, accepting Jane was definitely the future.