Parallax

I had 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 as I enter, green tomatoes fry on a skillet. I throw my fedora, 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 yet 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 our date." "Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects, spooning tomatoes onto a plate. I remember how badly I had 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." I imagine my black charred hand on the big white steering wheel as may horn honks impatiently. Green tomatoes sizzle as I disappear.