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Classic Mustang
By A. Gattani
“Hurry up Stan!” Mabel stands on the pointed tips of her three-inch red stilettos, staring at the open front door of the villa. “We’re getting late.” She always dresses to co-ordinate with her date. Now, running her palm along the cayenne red chassis, inhaling the smooth, gloss finish of metal Mustang with the memory of Stan’s muscles from last night rippling beneath her touch, she hollers, “Don’t forget my things.”


He emerges, her suitcases in each hand, tripping over the doorstep and lunging forward like a popped-open cork. “Do you know how heavy these two are?”
Of course. Mabel shrugs. She packed them herself only yesterday. “Just a few things.” She swings open the driver’s door and glides behind the black steering wheel with silver spokes. Her sandals can’t help but naturally glide along the red carpet. Her thighs automatically press against firm, red, leather seats, horizontal grooves running parallel with the seam of her tight jeans skirt, just shielding a cayenne-red Victoria Secret beneath, with the rest of today’s plans.


Stan ambles forward, struggling to balance while she swivels the key in the ignition and brings the gentle purring to life. Sweat oozes down the red polka-dot tank top, so Mabel pushes on one of the many sleek buttons along the panel then watches as gauges and controls blink, light and spring to life. The hood from the cockpit retreats, folding back into a ‘Z’ with the wrinkles contorting Stan’s face.


“Don’t know why you need all this when you hardly wear anything half the time, anyway.” He swings one suitcase over in the back, then the other. “Just a weekend. A holiday for Christ’s sake.”


A holiday. Mabel runs bright red cayenne nails through her hair. A holiday from you, forever. She keeps her expression blank behind Guccis lest she reveal anything, like Stan’s photos with blondes and brunettes tucked in the bureau, she found quite by accident this morning.


“And just where will all my stuff fit in?” His skin, all six-foot five of him, bronzes under the California sun. “You’ve taken up all the space.”
“My tennis racquet. Surfboard. Deckchair…” Mabel drones out a list with the steady hum of V8 engines.


“I thought you couldn’t play tennis.” Two hundred and ten pounds of muscle-mocha Stan stands in protest to the two hundred and ten horsepower engine at Mabel’s fingertips. “You hurt your knee yesterday afternoon while running.” He reminds her.
While trying to slide the bureau drawer shut, actually. Mabel wants to correct him but doesn’t. There is no need to. Stan doesn’t need to know anything beyond what he believes. Stan loves all those women, especially the one with him in a tux and some blonde in a white wedding dress, dated three years ago. He lied. He also loves his Mustang with its signature long hood, short deck and classic design. Who wouldn’t? So Mabel’s going to hurt him with what he loves most. “It’s a sprain. Nothing much.” She watches him trudge back for the remainder.


“Help me out then.” His tone is coarse with grit beneath the G-8’s wheels.
But Mabel is going to ride past all this with ease. “When I’m better.” She hollers, watching the bulge on his right jeans pocket swing with his gait. A solitaire. A half-carat diamond solitaire she accidentally flipped open this morning too. It has her name inscribed along the inner gold band with the anticipation harping on everyone’s lips for the last two months. The parents will be thrilled because Stan and Mabel are perfect for each other in every way. Mabel pushes on the accelerator while the gear is on ‘P’. All eight cylinders growl in unison.


“Quit it Mabel!” He screams. “I’m doing my best.”
His worst. She revs the engine till the Mustang shrieks a full-throated throttle of suppressed anger and minutes later he is downstairs armed with racquets, surfboards and beach accessories. Mabel swings an arm round, catching a hint of frustration as she orders him to fit her things in first.


“And me?” He pumps both arms against the coconut-palm Hawain-T, patched with sweat. “Exactly where is all my stuff going to fit in?”
“There’s plenty of space.” She lies. There isn’t. There isn’t meant to be. Mustangs are not meant for luggage. They’re meant for luxury. “You should have brought yours down before.” Mabel shrugs matter-of-factly and watches Stan stomp off again. And just when the seam of his white shirt and khaki shorts disappear in the doorway, Mabel revs the accelerator, slides the gear-shift and careens out the driveway with the wind tousling her silky, blonde strands.


“Hey!”
She turns behind to see him lunge out, his arms flailing in the air. “Mable! Mable!”


She smiles, smacking cayenne-painted lips together, then looks to the road ahead with the real man of muscle in her grip: a Ford GT Mustang Convertible. She has everything she needs right here, at her fingertips.


Now, which chauvinist said diamonds are a girl’s best friend?

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