Parallax

I've been driving for decades. A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51', the model with the three-speed manual transmission - 8 cylinder. A deserted desert diner. The door creaks. Tomatoes fry on a skillet. I throw my Panama, feed bread into a counter toaster. A woman appears, drying her hands. "You've found me in my old age - how impolite of you." She says between disapproving lips. She is indeed old, her face lined and lovely. "Is that your Buick"? Before I can answer, she asks, "is that your hat on a rack at the back"? I answer, "I think this is a date." "Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects, spooning tomatoes onto a plate. I remember how badly I treated her, making my excuses, leaving early in the evening. "This is it!" I exclaim. Our second chance!." A withering look. "In my story," she says, "you die young on the highway, in a ball of flames." The horn on the Buick honks. Someone came with me. I imagine his black charred hand on the big white steering wheel. Green tomatoes sizzle.