It was a week after he got it, the two-seater open top with the brown leather seats. The salesman told him they’d wear like a classic Rawlings, become soft and age “gracefully”. He knew he had him because he was in it for the seats. He actually liked a different car better… but this one had those seats. 

And then she got into it with her gigantic coffee and he told her to be careful. He remembers barking that at her as she sat. But no matter… and he could almost see it coming, in slow motion, the entire drink falling down onto the seats. She jumped up and immediately began apologizing. Grabbing napkins from her bag, she dabbed and wiped while he frantically joined her with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. 

He lit into her like she had ruined the entire car, shouting: “I only got it because of the seats. They are like an old baseball glove, damn it!” All the while she apologized, sobbed, said she would do whatever it took to fix it. At one point, she even said she’d work extra shifts so she could replace the whole seat, but that never happened.

The liquid seeped in deeply, leaving a dark stain that eventually faded to yellow.

He said so many things to her when that happened… and felt regret in real time, as though he understood what was happening as it was happening… but couldn’t stop himself.

And now he sits in a car marred by this memory. The seats have faded and aged just as the salesman said they would. And “gracefully” was exactly the right word for it.

Her seat…

With the stain of her folly.

And of his.

He would let her pour a bucket of coffee on them now, though would not yell at her this time. In fact, he would thank her for it. He would tell her that she was so much more to him than those seats, than that car. He would say that he was sorry.

And he would tell her how much he missed her.