Named for that queen I suppose, regal with its back seat more like a couch, the car of choice for mean older sisters and suspect aunts, the kind who might say fuck it, let’s drive to the border, I want to go to the casino which in that time was just a few trailers huddled together in the corner of a parking lot. Who said things like, I drive better when I’m high, and possibly it was true. The backseat of which could easily accommodate four, more if you sat on someone’s lap, what a thrill, laughing mercilessly at their blushes, teasing.

Or which fit one, stretched out on her back with the windows open and one foot dangling; laughing through my teeth, I lost a shoe this way once going round a sharp corner - not too fast I’m going to be sick. I never was, not even when the car was spinning, not even when it kept spinning even when we had long stopped moving anywhere.

If there’s one thing this town has an abundance of besides weed shops it’s used car lots, and sometimes I will see one parked up front, maybe with a sign in the window that says SHARP, no punctuation, and I wonder what exactly that means before I remind myself that not everything means something, some things just are. SHARP with the grill pointing out towards the traffic.

I think about this, I could be a SHARP woman in a SHARP car, drive it like a boat as serene as a captain on glassy water and then I remember they are murder on gas, it’s a hell of a car, Robyn used to say but it’s fucking ridiculous, filling the tank one five dollar note at a time, looking only half regretful.