All the Trappings

The car looked ridiculous parked next to the trolley store. Yellow, low slung, crimson leather seats open to the dreary sky, an engine that she hadn’t yet learnt to keep in check, revving in attention grabbing roars in traffic jams. She only hoped the supermarket’s cctv might discourage people from performing mischief upon it while she was in yoga.

It had been a silly purchase, but she could hardly run off to Thailand and upset the kids, and she was fairly sure she didn’t have the oomph for an affair with the hot flushes. Besides, she didn’t want to hurt anyone. So she had bought a car. Middle aged woman in a sports car. It was like broadcasting her dissatisfaction in a Morse code of carefully orchestrated revs.

The rain started, inevitably, as soon as she paid for the class. In the end, it felt imbecilic to sit there snorting through alternate nostrils when the interior of the kids’ college fund was getting ruined for want of a button press to restore the roof.

Back in the car, she watched water run down the windshield and didn’t bother crying. She hadn’t for years. What was the point? What was the point in any of this? There had been a time she really thought she would make something of herself. Make a difference. Now she was sitting in a puddle in a grossly impractical car waiting for 3pm. Still, she couldn’t pick the kids up looking like she’d wet herself.

In the supermarket, she chose a towel, some leggings and a sturdy pair of crimson knickers, which was when the thought hit her. Feeling momentarily invincible, she nipped into the fitting room and put her intention into the universe. She would have to master that engine. Superheroes need a fast ride.