dream car

(written at a previous date)

    Dear Harriet Walter,

    I am an ashy rubble heap filled with the unmarked graves of many hopes and dreams.

    My father loves cars. I like cars all right. I like spending time with my dad and listening to him talk. He likes to talk about cars.

    My family owns about three cars and two half-cars (as in, not working too well) at the moment. One of them is my father's car. It is a darling little black Mazda Miata MX-5 from 1996.

    I am learning to drive. I am learning to drive manual cars and am pretty good with the stick-shifting. I have driven this car several times. I love driving this car. I love driving this car.

    Dad and I were talking about Miatas the other day. He wanted to know what my perfect car would be. I gave him a very clear description.

    Last night he found my perfect car on Craigslist.

    It's a Miata just like his. It's from 1992, which was the year I was born. It's French racing blue with a tan interior. It's in wonderful shape. It has a good rollbar installed already. It is gorgeous. It is gorgeous. Miatas aren't fancy, but this one is absolutely perfect in my eyes.

    It is three thousand dollars, which is not at all bad for what it is. My family does not have three thousand dollars on hand. My family is poor.

    I want this car so badly.

    Last night I busied myself with dreaming of how it would be surprise-gifted to me for my birthday, and with trying to decide whether I would name it Belinda, Georgiana or Simone.
    Therefore the denial is only now wearing off, and right now I am huddled into a little quivering ball of unhappy, and Reality is beating at my brain with the ugly, rusted hammer of practical thinking.

    My brain does not care overmuch. My heart is the one aching.

[UPDATE the next day:
It's gone, man. It's gone.
Love was not enough.]