When I was younger, I thought that the greatest thing in the world was a 1989 Mini Cooper. Specifically my aunt’s 1989 Mini Cooper. She loved it more than anything in the world. The inside smelled of her—rather, smoke—and there was always nail polish in the glovebox. In the summer, we would both get in bathing suits and sandals to wash the car. She would flirt with the man that lived across the street strutting around the car in cloth that could barely be called a swimsuit, even if my uncle Bill was inside. I didn't mind though, it was her typical behavior.