Breakdown
"Well, what'yer waiting for?"
he snarls. "Get out and push!"
She leaps out of the open-topped car
without bothering to open the door.
"Push it yourself, right up your arse!"
He grips the wheel, stalled, seething.
Her skin-tight jeans stalk away
up the deserted country lane.
Minutes later he roars past her
revving, one finger raised aloft.
Round the corner he waits,
leaning nonchalantly against his roadster.
Even as he strikes the pose he realises
how ludicrous he must look:
his beat-up old motor is no Ferrari.
She marches up, their eyes locked.
He thinks he can detect a suppressed grin
spreading round her mouth, like his.
He grabs her, she doesn't resist,
bends her over the bonnet.
Their lips mesh, mash.
A quick repair job.
But they both know it couldn't,
shouldn't, wouldn't last.
Each high octane, too volatile a mix,
only a matter of time till the final backfire.
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