"We'll be right over," I say, keeping an eye on the Wife as she searches for a knife to cut up a tomato.
I have temporarily stored them under two blankets, an afghan, and an old pillow in the hall closet. Just until her tic goes away.
Or she's committed.
Which ever comes first.
"Hey, gotta lead on a car to buy.
Wanna go take a look?"
I feel a blast of air that makes me blink rapidly.
I immediately hear the horn squawking loudly from the minivan.
Walking to a window, I see her slapping the dash while leaning on the horn. The minivan is already idling, a small cloud of exhaust climbing into the subzero air.
Okay. I'll take that as a "yes".
We go to the car guy's place.
He tosses me the key and points to the abandoned gas station by the road before going back into the relative warmth of the ramshackle business.
There are two piles of snow. The second pile contains the car. It's a four-door sedan shaped like a suppository.
It is a light-mucus-green color. Like the pale green that's coughed up before the onset of pneumonia.
It has an interior color of some kind of tan/gray/greenish brown.
Like rolled field mice.
Without all the little bones and liquids.
Huh.
Okay, it starts. That is mildly impressive given the weather this week. It takes a full 10 minutes for the windows to clear enough for a test drive around the parking lot.
Well, it moves. Kinda.
Sliding it back into the pile where we found it, we squeeze out and look at it as the wind flash-freezes a few of our favorite body parts.
"Well. Whaddaya think?"
The Wife's facial tic breaks off the small icicle that formed at the corner of her mouth.
"It's a car. Get it."
"Don't you wanna-"
"It moves. It'll work. Get it.
Get it now."
Prying her frozen hands from my throat, I manage to croak out a garbled response.
"Well, okay. As long as you like it."
And now we own it - a 2003 Ford Taurus 4-door suppository in Mucus Green with a Rolled Field Mouse interior.
Huh.
And I still haven't figured out how to put the top down.