MGB
As many times as Averil started the engine, an exercise in antiquity, that many times it puffed. Abigail was a name quite suitable, that no electric car would ever inherit, and her attempts were the best possible. Unmeasurable acts of faithfulness.
The scene fades, leaving a pleasant afterglow. It has served its purpose, proving a reflex nurtured in forgotten palaces of the silver screen.
Sky Drone 5, hovering on the verge of autonomous action over Highway 9, followed its GPS to Castle Rock where, since the rains, southern access has become an exercise in futility. The rock has seen the last of it's majesty since the northern route rules.
Now it's attended by a swirling crowd, brochure readers sipping through plastic straws, paying vendors at fast food trucks. Shade sheltered moss is dusty, hiding in crevices.
Averil clears his throat.
“An SU carburetor is an elegant thing. One tapered needle doing
the job of all
those idling jets, accelerator pumps, orifices and butterfly
valves in a dual-throat Weber.”
Abigail let her canvas top flutter slightly in the breeze.
“You are too kind, old friend.”
“Remember those Stirling Moss runs up the south side, our
four-wheel drifts? Flights of foolishness. We could have died.”
“Ah, but how you held my wheel, and no one knew.
How we flew!”
.
