He marched into the dealership with a singular focus. No cheap tricks, no smarmy salesmen. He was getting the car he wanted at the price they advertised and strutting back out, ego still in check.
The plan dissolved instantly.
The sales rep left him winded – auburn hair, whiskey-laden voice, porcelain skin. He would’ve bowed if he thought it might help his cause.
Two hours later, he was the proud owner of an overpriced, neon green sports car he couldn’t even pronounce.
At least he got her number, he thought, smoothing out the folded square of paper.
Her nine-digit phone number.
The Weekday One Hundred 