The Volvo.

I felt his eyes behind my head. I just wondered about my Volvo. Who the fuck stole my Volvo? He spoke about my temper, about the jewelry he bought I never wore. I just worried about my Volvo. I could feel him on my shoulders burning raging mad, exhaling fire onto my back, probably wishing to provoke, or maybe kill me. I just worried about my Volvo. He talked about my life, his ideals, his goals, my being unbiased about everything. I still worried about my Volvo. Again, not looking at him, I now knew his body was trembling, and I knew he thought it was all my "fault". He kept on talking for hours to my back. He probably doesn't care if I'm listening or not... or about the Volvo. For some strange reason he left and never came back. About two months went by and still I sometimes sat backwards to where he once stood, pondering the whereabouts of my Volvo. The fucker took my Volvo.