She was a beauty, resting just a few feet away from me on the main drag that goes through downtown Athens, sitting there soaking up the warm summer rays.
She was topless, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. “Where did she come from?”
I hesitated for a second, but then decided to approach her, get a closer look, and find out a little more about her.
I didn’t care what anyone thought; I was smitten, and she had it all: the curves, the smooth body, the raw appeal that makes your knees quiver.
So, I walked over to her and admired her. The deep green paint job, the performance tires, the alloy frame — she was the sweetest Lotus Elise sports car I’d seen in years. And the sun beat down on her open top and reflected off her exotic beauty.
It was summer, and anyone who had the means was going topless. And this Lotus and her owner clearly had the means.
I’d seen other topless beauties emerge over the preceding weeks. Someone parked a pristine MGB in my neighborhood, leaving the top down in the cool evening weather.
“Hey! I owned an MG. That’s around the same year as mine!”
And then there was that incredible MGA sitting topless and exposed to all who walked by.
And how we did stop and gawk: men and women, hipster and oldster. “Is that a ’59? She sure is restored nicely!”
Summer was here; there was a muscle car with the top down; there was an open air Mercedes. And my nerves were twitching, and I wanted a convertible, and I knew it was wrong.
“Thou shall not covet. ... No. That’s a rule that applies to wives, not to a beautiful green Lotus Elise. That’s not covered under that commandment...”
This happens each summer. The tops go down and my defenses fall.
But I don’t need a convertible. The last one I drove was a rented Mustang. My head baked under the Florida sun; the road-borne noise was deafening; the exhaust fumes overpowering.
No convertibles for me. It’s far better to look, but not touch; admire, but not acquire.
Well, if you see me this summer, and my knees are shaking and sweat is running from my brow, just pray for me.
There’ll probably be a convertible nearby, and I’ll be fighting off another topless demon.
David McCoy, a notorious storyteller and proud Yellow Jacket, lives in Covington and can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.