Disclaimer: I know nothing about cars. When I saw the Wicked Wednesday prompt this week, I was tempted to skip this one. But I like a challenge, so I scoured Wikipedia until I found a single detail I could hang a story on. Probably though, the Ferrari Testarossa looks nothing like the car in Back to the Future. I’m bad at film, too.
The Ferrari stopped and the tinted window opened to reveal a man. Just not the one she wanted. He reached out, folded the wing mirror in, and the tinted glass slid back into place.
She came here to escape. There was, she’d discovered, little difference between being at the end of a relationship and right at its heart. Everywhere she went, everything she saw, it all reminded her of him. In the supermarket, she noticed the guys who used the same brand of toothpaste. In their favourite bar, the ones who ordered the wine he preferred. Suddenly, an abnormal proportion of the men she encountered wore his aftershave.
Thank god he wasn’t a coffee drinker.
Every Saturday she wiled hours away in coffee shops. They hadn’t even been together that long and she’d forgotten what to do with weekends spent alone. She read the paper, or tried to. She emptied sugar packets onto the table and drew patterns in the snowy grains. She tried, really tried, not to think about him.
The car door opened. The man stepped out. He was good looking, without a doubt. He was wearing beige tailored shorts and a pale blue shirt. Good legs, great arse. And he had a nice car. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she feel anything?
She’d noticed the car for the wrong reason when he’d pulled up to the kerb. Some women, she knew, would be drawn in just by the sight of a 1980s style Ferrari that looked like something out of Back to the Future. Most would never even have spotted the branding above the brake light.
She watched the man as he queued for his coffee. How would his thick leather belt look hanging open? How would his fingers feel inside her? Would he taste like the espresso the waitress was pushing across the counter towards him?
She willed herself to imagine his cock, to think about the way the head of it would feel spreading her open, to picture the veins running like tributaries under the skin. And amazingly, the willpower worked. She was wet; thinking of somebody new.
He downed his coffee and walked back to his car. If he noticed her sat there, by the door, he didn’t show it.
For six months, the only man she’d thought of, the only one she’d wanted, was the man who was now her ex: fiery, passionate, red-headed. Her very own testa rossa. It was those words on the back of the car that drew her to it, another sign, another reminder of her loss.
But as its driver fired the engine and pulled off into traffic, she knew something inside her had shifted.
She would fuck other men. Men who drank different wine, used different toothpaste, wore all kinds of aftershave. Her testa rossa would become one of many, loved and lost, but fondly remembered. She would be ok, more than ok, in fact. One day, not too far from now, she’d remember how it felt to be happy.
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