She slept in rust, then woke in red — fins like knives, that hard, dead sheen. Arnie heard the metal breathe, and something in him leaned. Buddy came smiling, mean as stone; Christine answered in chrome and bone. She was bad. She was beautiful. She was Christine. Bad, beautiful — Christine. You couldn’t look away, couldn’t stay unseen; she was bad. She was beautiful. She was Christine. Leigh saw the hurt behind the glass, the hunger under paint. Arnie said, “She’s mine,” and meant a love that wouldn’t faint. She was bad. She was beautiful. She was Christine. Bad, beautiful — Christine. You couldn’t look away, couldn’t stay unseen; she was bad. She was beautiful. She was Christine. “Show me what you are.” The engine idled like a vow. “Get out of the car, Arnie.” Too late. Too long. Too now. She’s not a car — she’s the hunger in between. She was bad. She was beautiful. She was Christine. Bad, beautiful — Christine. Love turned iron, then iron turned obscene; she was bad. She was beautiful. She was Christine. Christine… …still running. Till the road in my head has no reason to end.
