Mar 31 2010
Seduction in a 69 Mustang
A woman with eyes like the sun’s center found a man with a fast car. They met at a Halloween party, where he eyeballed her feathers and leather.
“Pocahontas?”, he asked.
She rolled her eyes, then examined the camoflauge and combat boots.
“Playing army?”
“Yeah,” he scoffed. “Playing.”
She pointed. “Is that thing loaded?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, “Don’t Indians ride horses?”
“Native Americans. And I don’t have a horse.”
“Well I do. It’s right outside.”
She tilted her head. “No soldier ever came to a party on a horse.”
“This one did.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Come with me and I’ll show you my horse.”
“That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard.” But she followed him into the night, where a vintage red Mustang glistened like a wild dog struggling at the end of its chain.
“It’s gorgeous.” Her chest heaved. Under moonlight, she looked diaphanous against the hard metal, so he pressed her in to the door, teased her with his tongue. She tasted like lightning.
“The ghosts are out tonight,” he whispered. “Want to go find a few?”
“That’s the second worst line I’ve ever heard.” She almost hesitated before pulling open the passenger door and sliding inside.
He smiled. Then he tore out of town and down a lonely stretch of highway where only the night creatures would witness the things he’d do to her.
“Go faster,” she begged. So he did. She looked scared, but all she said was, “you smell dangerous.”
He laughed. “That’s a strange thing to say.” But he liked that she had said it, so he pressed down harder on the pedal, and the Mustang shuddered. He felt barely in control, but what did that matter? He was a knight in iron armor, rushing to claim a prize at the end of his journey.
She reached for him, but the seatbelt held her tight.
“Seat belts are for sissies,” he teased. So she unclipped hers, touched him, he moaned. Before he knew it, she had the loaded gun.
“What in the hell are you doing?” Then from the darkness outside, something leaped in front of his car. No, right on to it. He slammed the brakes. An Indian woman riding a red horse jumped directly at his windshield just as the woman in his passenger seat jumped out of it. In fact, the two women collided.
The car fishtailed to a stop, his heart thumped wildly, nostrils flared.
With a shaky hand, he touched the glass. Despite two women simultaneously smashing through it, the windshield was in perfect order. And he was alone in the full moon’s light.
Meanwhile, on that same stretch of road, and over two centuires earlier, a woman with eyes like the sun’s center who had died while escaping something terrible, frantically rode a red horse into the eye of a metal monster. She cried in relief when the rest of herself crashed back in to her own body after all these years. And she was happy to see the gun. This time, things would end right.
Which got me thinking. “Wouldn’t it be rockin awesome to put together a day of my friends to do this with?”
