“I know it’s a bright colour,” the owner said. “It’s chartreuse.”
“Actually, it’s arctic lime, maybe peridot.”
“Okay,” he said.
His name was Kenneth Peterman and he wore kelly-green trousers and the aforementioned too-tight powder-blue golf shirt with an upturned collar. He smiled easily and constantly. “Here, sit behind the wheel. Feel that leather. Get out for a second and let me start her up for you.” He fell in behind the wheel and cranked the engine, letting out a noise himself as the motor turned over. “Listen to that.”
“There’s some-“
“No, listen to that for a second.”
I nodded, listened.
“That’s like music.”
“How much?” I asked.
Peterman looked at me as if offended.
“Does she have a name?” I asked.
This question relaxed him. “I call her Audrey. My wife hates her.” Peterman stared through the windshield. “She hates her, but she wants her. Everyone wants Audrey.”
I let my unspoken question hand in the air.
“Divorce,” he said. “Avoid it if you can.”
“I’m not married.”
“A very good first step.”
I appreciated his rudimentary logic, but still I wanted to know what he expected for the car.
“Can you believe she would take her just to be spiteful? Shrew.”
“No, I can’t.” I said. “Just how spiteful would that be? I mean in dollars.”
“She won’t even drive it. She won’t even sell it. She’ll give it away as junk, to some lame charity that helps poor children, for a tax deduction. You’ve heard those damn kids singing on the radio. Annoying as hell.”
“The kids?”
“No, my fucking wife, almost ex-wife, she’s annoying as hell. Boy I can’t wait to say that, ex-wife.”
“How annoying is she? I asked. “I mean, in dollars.”
