She was the queen while it lasted. Eventually I couldn't afford her high maintenance and my father put the hammer down saying, "You can have a hot convertible or go to college, but not both." I picked college and put a sign in her window, just like I'd found her.
Some slimeballs from California trolling the Southwest for rust-free hard bodies bought her for a song. They lied to me and told me they'd take care of her and send pictures when she was fixed up. They must've laughed about that all the way to the California border.
Now I don't smoke much anymore and I drive a 1980 Dodge step-side pick-up with a solid ash-wood bed. It's slow as hell on the highway, but it's reliable, and it feels good to sit up high. I love my truck, but it's not about passion, more affection and respect.
And besides, I'd probably be burned out or dead if I was still riding her.
Or I'd be like in my dream, running down some desert road, floating over the ruts and dips leaving a trail of smoke and dust. A farmer looks up as we pass and sees a strung-out man in a strung-out car and he thinks, "He never let go of the muscle car thing. Nice car though, if you put some work into it."