Fayette seemed to consider the road lazily, almost without noticing it. His eyes rolled from side to side at speeds his car could only dream of matching, the other racers proving to be only dashes that marred the clean serenity of his mirrors, filling their viewer with a euphoria only the act could provide. His hands seemed gracefully slow moving as they lightly tipped the wheel as a lover might his other, arching her to the side and creating a single beautiful movement in it’s wake. Fayette enjoyed this metaphor quite a good deal, and thought so highly of it that it was sealed away for another time. An interviewer’s prodding questions or the tender ear of a sweet girl he might meet later that day. He might show her his trophy, so newly shined as it throws back the lights of the parlor only victors called home. He might show her his car, as they drive to his humble chateau. He might show her the brass of the gates and the wood of the floors, all new.
He will show her many things.