Le baiser et la mini rouge

Then, in the light of the yellow street lamps, my eyes rested on the little red mini. So small and compact. A huddled forlorn ladybird.

Alone.
Exposed.

Vulnerable.

I was flooded with a sudden urge to vent my rage upon its tiny metal frame and wiry sinews. It shivered in the night. Terrified and unable to move. I wanted to take a crowbar and bring it crashing down upon the windscreen, to echo the same resonance in my heart. I wanted to kick in the door panels. I wanted to rock it so hard that it toppled over. I wanted to throw hot acid on the bonnet and watch the pristine shiny red paintwork blister and peel as though from an allergic reaction of his poisonous love, eating it and disintegrating from the inside, surging and bubbling beneath the surface like molten lava.

I wanted to avenge myself on this symbol of hope. I hated it. It was where we had our first kiss. It symbolised escape. I wanted to punish it for each time my heart was filled with joy at seeing it parked outside the conservatoire, for it meant that my love wasn't far away. I wanted to hear its metallic screams as I tore its sheets of steel for each bolt of electricity that seized my heart every time I saw a red mini in the traffic, making it beat quicker in my chest with the same fervour of a caged bird beating its wings to escape.

I slowly stepped towards the car with steady measured paces. As I walked past I gently lay a single finger on the roof and, my arm trailing behind me, traced its form. Despite its roughness to the touch, my mind's eye saw the silky smooth tanned skin of M as I traced the contours of his shoulders and down his back. As I silently walked away, I left a clean line in the dust on the black roof.

An uneven line. Like a dying heartbeat.