Motorhead

He was a racer. And and a lucky one at that. He felt more comfortable in his car than anywhere else. It was almost like a second set of skin. Belts and shafts like vessels and nerves to him. He would spend hours, practically days, in her. He often wondered why he didn’t sleep in it but he knew that would be frowned upon. All cars fascinated him, not just his own, but his was special. Practically built by hand with his father it was a piece of his own flesh and blood. The wheels were only extensions of his arms and legs. His eyes were headlights and the engine his heart. Infatuated, if not addicted, by gasoline and oil because they were easier than people. He knew her better than every other woman in his life. He knew she hated summer, but loved the winters. She handled well on the ice and snow. Until when the ice was just a little too thick. Around a bend at nearly neck breaking speeds – just like any other day – he met a doe standing in the street. Trying to avoid killing her, or worse, harming his car, he spun. In that instant the world was kaleidoscopic, swimming and revolving around them forever. Everything that was, was a mad array of colors and time stood almost still. Coup contrecoup; like a rubber band. Hurling through the air like a doll in a hurricane. Then impact with a large oak. Even then he was still lucky in three regards. The first was he never saw how badly his darling had been hurt. The second was that he would never be leaving his baby. The third was that flesh, spirit, and metal had become one as the headlights blinked alive and they drove away together.