The peach stays.
Before the pink paint, before the new wheels, before anyone was leaning over a velvet rope to photograph it, the coupe smelled like one stubborn peach-scented air freshener. Lola bought the car from a woman who kept every service receipt in a biscuit tin. The little cardboard tree came with it. Three restorations later, it still swings from the mirror. Rita offered to replace it with something tasteful. Lola asked whether “tasteful” had helped remove the old transmission. It had not. The peach stayed. People at the meet now photograph that ridiculous piece of cardboard as carefully as the engine. Lola considers this a healthy distribution of attention.


