FAST CARS

The motorway is empty.  We drive down the slip road and cruise alongside each other, you in your shiny new motor and me in the old car you kindly gave me.  We look across, I stick two fingers up and you poke your tongue out.  I floor it before the agreed starting point.  You have the advantages of more power and bigger engine; I won’t win by obeying rules.  I’m up to 100mph in a heartbeat.  The adrenaline kicks in.

You’re alongside me in moments and sailing passed.  I could’ve weaved all over the place, made it hard, but then I would have risked smashing into you.  I get a smug wink from your hazard lights as you disappear into the distance and I slow down to sulk.  I didn’t even get up to speed and I so wanted a race ...  Then I see blue lights far in front, there must have been a cop on a slip road.  I should drive innocently by, but if you’re going to be in trouble, I want to be in more.  I hit the accelerator and don’t change up.  The roar of the engine is deafening.  I think I manage to scream by your hard shoulder meeting with Mr Traffic Officer at 130mph.  I imagine the cop diving into his car, taking off and radioing, but he’s not going to catch me.  His colleagues will have to.

When I see the blue lights in my mirror, I don’t pull over.  I can see you and I, walking to court together like Bonnie and Clyde.  I’ll be the biggest media whore ever.  I can tell them how I saw the politicians on the news talking about austerity and cuts, cocooned in their Saville Row suits.  How I wanted to smash their faces in, tear their guts out and piss on them.  Instead, I tore down the motorway and got chased by Police.  A woman with a reliable job, who had never been in trouble, who should be at home knitting or baking or doing whatever we middle aged women are supposed to do.  A lot will be made of my age, that I’m child-free, selfish and immature.  Why didn’t I pull over and stand by my man?  Why did we, a couple with ‘it all’, do this crazy thing?  The establishment will take everything away – licence, job, home.  

They are closing in on me now, two cop cars behind, a helicopter above, blue lights ahead.  They have blocked the motorway, I’ll be forced onto the exit.  They will chuck a stinger across my path and bust my tyres.  Then they will take me into custody and be the first to ask why.  What can I tell them?  About the travelling, the house moves, the relationship changes and a career break spent at university?  All so I could end up back in a fucking office, earning exactly the same wage as when I began; just more in debt and desperate to escape.