Jane eased off the barrier standoff, the l*ttle 1.0 finally catching with a ragged cough—exhaust puffing thick, petrol-scented clouds into the damp air. She reversed back into the fields in order to turn around, but the success was short-lived as the engine stalled out on her again.

Fortunately, she managed to get it going quite quickly, and then carefully navigated her way down the muddy, pothole-infested roads back towards civilisation.

At the main road junction, it quit again—silent amid the whoosh of passing traffic both ways. Deep sigh. Crank, fire—resistant still, revs teasing low. Subtle ch*ke pulls, millimetre by millimetre, until it held just enough, the engine’s uneven rumble vibrating through the steering wheel into her palms.

She pulled away onto the tarmac, tyres gripping firm after the mud’s slip. Motorway inevitable now. She followed the road, entrance ramp looming under grey skies. Pedal floored hard, ch*ke still out, the l*ttle engine straining with a high-pitched whine, down on power, exhaust trailing a faint bl*ck haze.

Short stint—one junction only. Pedal pinned, wind buffeting the windows, engine heat rising tangy through the vents. Exit close; she peeled off.

Now roundabouts loomed—other road users zipping close. She navigated with care, keeping the ch*ke out. She didn’t want the car to stall; she was simply hoping it wouldn’t flood on her again while she was driving.

She seemed to be heading back out to a much more rural location, and again we find her driving down what appeared to be just a single-track road leading to nowhere. She arrived, surprised: empty spot, no one waiting. Late—considerably, thanks to the morning’s mechanical hell.

She grabbed her phone.

“Where is he? I’m already 15 minutes late,” she muttered, frustration *dging her tone.

She couldn’t c*ll him—meeting someone she shouldn’t, the secrecy biting. But the phone vibrated in her hand; he was calling.

The conversation unfolded sharply: he was standing her up. Regret incoming—he would miss out; she was a pedal-pumping, cranking enthusiast after all.

“Well, you’ve missed out here because my car is sick,” she told him straight, her voice steady but edged. “It’s struggling to start, breaking down, but hey, if you’ve got better things to do, so be it.”

The c*ll ended. Then she remembered: she had brought those shoes he liked—told him earlier.

She changed into them—open-toe flats, toes flexing cool against the air.

She picked up the phone again and h*t record, filming her feet on the pedals. The ch*ke was still out from the drive; the engine immediately flooded on the first crank, the starter whirring futilely as the carburettor struggled to clear, petrol fumes thick in the cabin.

She gave it her best.

“I’m all alone and I’m stranded, desperate, please,” she said down the phone, her voice a mix of plea and tease.

She cranked over several times—long whirls, filming the foot action: heel lifting, toe cleavage visible in the open flats, pressing firm. Each crank came with subtle, desperate begging—to illustrate her predicament and punish his absence.

“Come on, b*by, come on,” she pleaded softly.

“Oh no... I think someone’s coming.”

The scene capped with her laughing into the phone—sharp, mocking.

“Ha. This is what you’re missing.”

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