Monica pounded the steering wheel of the beat-up, late model Datsun in sheer frustration. Greg’s car was indeed a piece a crap. She knew she should have stopped for gas at the Petrol Pantry two miles back. As she had cruised by her little voice begged her to stop, hollered in fact. Bad things always happened when she didn’t listen to that nagging little voice. Dang!

She looked over her shoulder at the junk in the back seat. The car was so old that red and rust competed for attention as primary color. The seat springs pushed up through the upholstery like weeds in a daisy patch. Ignoring all of this, she sighed as her gaze flitted over the collected odds and ends riding along: old newspapers, fast food containers, text books, underwear. (Underwear?) She stared miserably at the items, mentally willing a gas container to appear. No such luck.

“Looks like I’m walkin’,” she thought miserably as she opened the door and placed one high-heeled-strappy-sandal-covered foot gingerly on the asphalt.