Lights and Lights

The wet cobblestones flashed with light from the clubs that lined the street. Cigarette smoke overpowered the quieter smells of alcohol and sweat that drifted out from the knots of people loitering around the entrances. Someone pulled up in a red convertible and people pressed against the side of the car to beckon them in. He got out, grabbed a couple, and walked into the biggest club with the man and the woman on either side, chatting and laughing. He tossed the keys to me.

I stepped in behind the wheel. The seat was always warm, and I hated the feeling. It ruined the experience of a car to have it feel so recently used. My uniform held me back as well. On the farm, before the drought, I used to race shirtless in a pair of ragged jeans. That was the only way to really drive a car.

I revved the engine, feeling out the limits of the clutch. It was snappy and I lurched forward the slightest bit before transitioning smoothly into second gear. The tires bobbled on the rough stones. I sometimes thought about how long these roads had been here; horses, carriages and hansom cabs had all traced the same route I did. Tonight it didn’t feel like anything, but there were nights that I felt as though I carried on a timeless and proud tradition.

I smelt gasoline. It got stronger as I turned the corner and drove away from the sounds and scents of the main street. The car hit a particularly large stone and I saw everything in slow motion.

The hood of the car bent and curved upwards. Bright red light shone out from underneath, followed by tongues of flame that grew as the hood split down the middle. The car lifted up and I felt myself tilting backwards. The fire in the front had grown from individual flames to single mass. The heat hit me, and then the fire reached me. I could already smell the smoke.