The car sat by the old green shed, bright a blue as ever: the blue of eggshells and spring skies. Those white eyes stared at me from the headlamps as I approached.
“You don’t know, do you?” I asked, laying a hand upon the bonnet. “Nobody told you.”
It was a silly thing to say. I was talking to a car: a heap of old metal. But he’d loved the car, so somehow it just seemed right.
“He died last night,” I said. The metal seemed to grow cold under my fingers. “I suppose you knew it was coming. He came out to you less and less.”
I stood there, spilling my soul to an old car with painted-on eyes, and even though it was absurd, it made me feel a lot better.
When I walked away, it seemed as if those painted eyes were full of grief as mine.
Word Count: 150
This is my entry for this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. The photo prompt is provided by pixabay.com. Thanks as always to Priceless Joy for running the challenge.