That's My Car

“Stop,” I shouted, “Stop!” And my car stopped, less because I was shouting than because I ran out in front of it before it could turn right on red.

“Hey,” the lady driving rolled down the window, “what’re you doing, you crazy bitch? Get outta the road!”

I slammed my hands down on the hood of the car. “What’m I doing? What’re you doing? This is my goddamn car!”

Pause. “Like hell it is, this is my car!” I couldn’t believe it. I come back from a three-mile run to see my car leaving the parking lot, and she insists that it’s hers.

Cars behind her started honking, and people gathered on the sidewalks around us. Someone walked out to me. “C’mon, lady, ain’t safe in the road.”

“She’s stealing my car,” I shouted, and shook him off. “It’s my car,” she shouted, “No, it’s not!” I screamed back. “Look, I have the key,” I pulled it out. “Where’s your key?”

I screamed that a few times as somebody pulled me aside. Tires squealed as the lady gunned it to get out of there. I almost ran after her. Instead I started asking after a cell. I needed a ride.