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him.
    I had just left DeWayne Curtis, my fool of an ex-husband, and was discovering how tough it was to raise a kid by myself. My half-ass job as a cop in Belvington Heights was kicking my butt daily, and nightly bouts with Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream had added thirty pounds to my frame. I was a menace to society and to myself. Sorrow seemed to be my lot in life.
    It was Thursday night and I was on my way home after a grueling day. I had just picked up a fried whiting sandwich and a side of fries from my favorite fried fish place on Central Avenue and was hugging the greasy bag to my chest like a talisman. In my other hand, I grasped a plastic shopping bag brimming with a six-pack of beer, a box of super tampons, two jumbo bags of Oreos, and a carton of orange juice. I'd tucked the Cherry Garcia into my handbag for safe-keeping.I was sweaty, smelly, and unfit for human encounter. The last thing I needed to hear was some tired-ass Negro rap, so when those words tumbled out of his mouth, my eyes ripped through him like razors. But then he smiled with that cute little dimple and suddenly “stroke of luck” didn't sound so corny.
    He had always been a fit, good-looking man who wore his clothes like he was headed somewhere special, as he probably was that night. DeWayne Curtis routinely dressed better than me, so I knew an expensive shirt when I saw one. He gave me the kind of hug that makes you feel protected and desirable all at the same time, and told me how good I looked (which I knew was a lie) and how glad he was to see me (which may have been the truth). We talked about nothing for fifteen minutes—what we'd been doing, what we wanted to do. As he turned to leave, we both noticed the greasy stain, courtesy of my fish sandwich bag, left on his shirt. He just laughed about it and said it was worth every greasy inch just to run into me again. He walked me to the Demon, kissed me on the cheek, and watched from the curb as I pulled away. I went home that night with a grin on my face and felt better about myself, life, and everybody in it for the rest of the week. I never forgot it.
    The years had treated him well. He'd grown into his looks the way some men do. The dimple was still there, of course, and he was still dressing good. He hugged me for old times’ sake, and the hug hadn't changed either. I hoped he didn't remember the fish sandwich.
    “I'm here to buy a car,” I said.
    ‘And I'm here to sell one. I own this place now. Bought it five years ago from Rayson.”
    For the next five minutes, he filled me in on the particulars about buying and selling cars. Things had gone well for him, he said, which was plain to see. Frank, bad breath, nasty manner, and all, took the boss's unspoken hint and faded quietly into the background.
    “So this is the car you want?” Larry patted the hood of the red Jetta with affection. “Good car, this one. Get in, take a look around, see how it makes you feel.” He opened the door and I climbed behind the wheel.
    It felt good, like I had always been there. The upholstery was black, the same color as the Demon's, and I had a thrilling moment of deja vu. It was a manual, too, which I like. Jake, who loves to drive almost as much as he loves to cook, says that driving a stick is like cooking with gas; you have control and the car will tell you what you're doing. He puts an automatic car in the same category as electric stoves—don't need it. At this point in my life, I wouldn't drive anything else.
    “Feels good.” I pressed down on on the clutch and shifted the gears, which were as smooth as silk.
    “You like the color?”
    “Love it. I never thought I'd like a red car, but I do,” I said, suddenly remembering that red was Celia's color; it seemed fitting.
    “How about a test drive?”
    “I can do that?”
    “Never buy a car without one.”
    The reality of my pocketbook brought me back to earth. “No, that's okay,” I said as I climbed out of the car. “I really