(...there is no spoon.)
My friend at the gas station smiles at me, his black eyes and white teeth sparkling in his dusky face, conjuring the sands of Arabia. He calls me sweetheart and wishes me a good evening.
The handsome longhaired Mexican at the corner table of the Chinese buffet flashes white teeth at me, then looks down, bashful, and returns to his friends. I do not hear a word of English from their table.
Sun tangles in the western treetops. All around, the whine of high performance engines mixes with birdsong and radio jumble. In the right lane, somewhere behind me at the light, an engine revs. A high performance nose pulls beside me, into my right mirror.
I hit the gas.
A glimpse of youngish guy, impression of a grin. He revs, I rev harder, and am ahead. The Blazer blocking him pulls in front of me, and I am forced to drop back. He pulls forward; black lettering on white racing stripes against black paintjob tell me I'm trying to outrun a Cobra.
Annoyed, exhilerated, I pull the dusty four-door carseat- and kid- ladden late model sedan behind the Cobra, race to inches of kissing his bumper before pulling back to the left lane.
The crewcut driver waves at me, laughing, as he turns off into the golden evening.
There is firebird in my past, and I feel Firebird in my future.
(Champagne boycut hipsters; matching bra. Those who eschew sensual underthings are actively engaging in self-deprivation.)