Micra Musings
In September I had my heart broken. Between disillusionment with my degree, questioning my career prospects, and wondering if I should drop everything and move to Melbourne, I was lost and longing for change. You arrived at just the right time. We met online — Facebook — and for one whirlwind week we got to know each other. Texting until late, around busy work and uni schedules, we finally set a date for the weekend. I had bared my heart and my feelings were seemingly reciprocated, sharing five years of itemised service invoices, lamenting night shifts, even travelling to the south side of the Bridge for me. Every day I looked forward to our exchanges. You were the first thing on my mind in the morning and the last at night. Totally vulnerable to your charm, I could see my life coming together again. My insecurities and uncertainties fell away as our chemistry reassured me that some things are just meant to be. It was just so easy.
Did our texts mean nothing to you? I had almost paid for a mechanic and everything.
How quickly I had fallen for that sleek silver exterior, that three-cylinder engine, that ice-cold A/C. So clearly I could imagine my phone plugged into the aux, speakers blaring as I hit fifth gear on the freeway. I saw my friends squeezed tightly in the back, windows hand-cranked down, beach bags by their feet. This was the answer to the tedium of my life. This was exactly what I had been missing. My ticket to freedom, my road tripping accomplice, my dream tiny car.
We had a 2 p.m. date. You sent a 1:43 p.m. text. Deep in a blissful reverie, blindly trusting and ignorant, the buzz in my pocket went unnoticed.
“Hi, sorry to be a hassle I have someone looking at the car at the momment (sic.) who is pretty interested so can we push the inspection back a bit just incase? (sic.)”
My housemate was in the driver’s seat, running through our inspection’s plan of attack. Open on my lap lay my notebook, scrawled with instructions on how to find a VIN and what an engine oil dipstick should look like. We had done our research, we were ready for seemingly anything. 20 minutes in to a 25-minute drive. The first text still unseen. Your 1:51 p.m. follow up.
“Hi I’m so sorry if I wasted your time, the person I’m showing the car to has just bought it.”
At last I retrieved my phone, ready to let you know we were nearly there. As the notifications came rolling in, reality came crashing down. My heart stopped. The spring breeze turned frigid and my stomach hit the bitumen. All that I thought I knew, all that I had believed about us fell away. Winded by the velocity of your betrayal, cut loose and floundering at the shattering of my fantasies, I was forced to register the truth.
You never told me anyone else was involved. Was I meant to figure that out on my own?
My housemate turned the car around. With tears in my eyes, I texted back saying it’s fine. Of course it’s fine, you didn’t owe me any loyalty. We had never agreed on any label, it was only natural you would be talking to others. Nothing was natural, however, about the way my lunch began to claw its way back up my throat. My mind reeled as the future that I had imagined with that silver 2014 Nissan Micra crumbled around me. Trips to the pool. Carting friends to and from the airport. Driving up the coast to visit my parents. After such a long talking period, can you blame me? I had been so sure that what we had was special. Does this other girl even know about me? What about the sweet things we told each other? About Sundays at the car wash and services every six months, about splashing out on comprehensive insurance, roadside assistance and all? Were you spinning the same lines to her, too? I thought we were a match, I wanted to do it all together. Did I not make myself clear? You knew this was my first car and still you couldn’t be honest.
I think I’ve realised I never really wanted a car before now. I guess I never meant as much to you as you did to me. Don’t you know comparison is the thief of joy?
My friends tell me I dodged a bullet, that I’m better off without a car anyway. What’s that statistic – carless women are the happiest demographic? Women are better off without cars, whether they want a vehicle or not? Something like that. My friends say the new owner will figure out your two-faced ways soon enough. Squeezing my hands, they assure me you were just desperate and scared you’d never find a buyer, so you settled for the easy choice. I nod and agree that you were punching all along. But it isn’t really about the car, it’s about what I had felt between us. Deep down inside, I wanted to be chosen, even if we were doomed. I know logically it isn’t personal. You were the problem, not me. But why is it so hard to believe? I chose you, why didn’t you choose me?
I want to believe that what we had was real, but I think I’ve been strung along enough already.
One day I hope we can say hello in the street. I crave going for one last drive; talking about pretentious books and getting your oil changed. Swapping pants in the op shop, and finding the best deal on Premium Unleaded. But today I box up your empty promises and leave them in the dust under my bed. I guess now we’ll never see how far we would have gone together. I’ll waste no more tears on this Nissan Micra. I think we both know that, in truth, I’m really more of a Fiat 500 girl.
WANTED: Fiat 500 or similar, 150 000 km and under, big brown eyes, excellent fuel efficiency, $8000 or less, emotionally available, automatic transmission preferred, nice smile, full mechanical logbook, recent rego, good knees, located South-Eastern Suburbs, will share lemon gelato and do crosswords with me forever and ever. ONO.