“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.”