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Show 23 The car lurched once, snapping their heads back, and then died again, still in the crosswalk. He pushed on the starter and pumped the accelerator while the motor turned over and over and the car that had honked pulled past him to the left, its tires shrieking. Lorin smelled gasoline fumes. "Now I've flooded the son of a bitch," he said. "Lorin, I'm not going to stay in this car." "I guess we sit here and wait while it cools off or something," he said, biting his knuckle. "God damn that pisses me off." "Press the starter and hold the gas pedal down without pumping it," she said coldly. Lorin looked at her in surprise, but she was staring straight ahead. Her hands were in her lap. He hesitated, then depressed the clutch pedal, feeling his leg shake, and pressed the starter button with his thumb, watching the nail turn white. The engine turned furiously for half a minute, and then caught. He sat looking at the dashboard while the car vibrated under him, his foot still on the clutch, his right hand still gripping the gear shift. He looked at that hand and observed that its knuckles were white. He glanced down at her feet, in their white shiny shoes with the pointed toes, and noticed the fragile awkwardness of her ankles. He had to lean forward slightly to see them under the shower of white chiffon that hung over them. She had drawn her light jacket over her lap, and her hands were still in her lap, and she was still staring straight ahead through the windshield. Pedestrians still crossed in front of them and behind them, and straight ahead at the next intersection was another traffic light. Cars were going around them on both sides. "That's pretty good," he said. "Give it more gas when you let in the clutch next time," she said. |