It happened yesterday

It was a windy day in downtown Denver. I saw a woman walking in a dark outfit. Black, double-breasted wool coat, short wool skirt, mid-thigh length, in a large plaid pattern of black and brown, some tassels. A wraparound. Her hair was up, tight, in a bun. Her step was prim, measured but quick on her long, slender black heels. Black tights, black hair, she was a fine black line against the grey faux marble of the post office.

Then the wind kicked up and played in her skirt as the wind will do with any wraparound. Panicked, she fought to keep it down, but the wind blew fiercely, its fingers loosening the strands of her hair from the bun, and I could see her slowly giving in to the raw power of nature, something in her rising to its primal call. It enrapt and unwrapped her with its passion, and she succumbed, lifting her hands, smiling, tossing her head to let her hair trail free behind her.

And I, sitting in my car, a simple machine, pure prosthesis of my body, saw that the light had changed. I pushed the clutch in deep, thrust the knob forward and felt the barely-lubricated gears enmesh with rough strife. The gas pedal goes down, reaching back into the engine to pull the throttle lever. The mouth of the carburetor opens, gasping, gasping. The engine surges faster and faster, four flat cylinders bucking wet with oil thin from heat and friction. RPMs go up, the valves roar, roar, roar as I race through the intersection. Then the clutch goes deep again, the engine sighs, and she is gone. I do not look in the rear view mirror.