She was a mean one, that car.

Smooth lines, curves in all the right places, flat black paint job with pinstripe trim like scandalous lipstick. She had two leather bucket seats that flirted precariously six inches off the pavement. And that well-worn 5-speed stick that gripped you tighter than an old baseball glove.

The first time I saw her she stole the breath right out of my lungs; I had to look away. Surely a ride like that can’t even be legal, I thought. I was in love.

Before I had even climbed behind the wheel, I gave her a name. Chandra. Yes, my Chandra. Oh, she was good. The seduction had already run its course — there was no hope left for me in that icy used car lot, regrets notwithstanding. I knew I’d be sorry, and never felt gladder for it. I signed on the dotted line and drove into the sunset.

But this car, this Chandra, had a demon. A regular Jezebel, she won me over then slit my throat.

I would only come to be grateful, in tearful retrospect, that I hadn’t been wearing my seatbelt that day.