Jenny & Her '67 Mustang

Jenny: https://imgur.com/a/YtWNYxp 

Jenny stood by her dresser, the morning light filtering softly through the blinds. She reached for a fresh pair of nude Sheer Energy pantyhose, the silky

nylon catching the light. With practiced grace, she sat on the edge of the bed and began to slide them up her legs, smoothing them carefully over her 

calves, her knees, then over her round hips with a gentle tug.

Standing, she reached for her black miniskirt, pulling it snugly into place with a satisfying zip. She glanced in the mirror—clean lines, subtle shine from 

the hose, and a confident silhouette. Then, she slipped her feet into her favorite beige wedges, the cork soles adding a gentle lift as she took a few steps 

to test the fit.

Jenny grabbed her leather crossbody bag from the chair and tossed it over her shoulder. The gentle click of the clasp sounded final, like a little exclamation 

point to her outfit. Her beige wedges made soft, confident clicks against the hardwood floor as she walked toward the door.

Outside, the spring morning was already cool, and the sun lit up her black skirt and her pantyhose clad legs. She made her way across the parking lot, each 

step deliberate, her stride easy but poised. The wedges gave her just enough height to feel elegant, and the pantyhose smoothed every movement like a 

second skin.

She approached her car—a classic 1967 Mustang she'd inherited from her grandfather. It was temperamental but beautiful, its deep green paint gleaming 

in the light. She opened the door and slid inside, the seat familiar beneath her.

As she turned the key, the engine gave a slow churn. She tapped the gas pedal with her wedge, the nylon on her foot brushing softly against the rubber. 

Another turn. Still nothing.

Jenny let out a small breath, half amused. "C'mon, not today."

She rocked slightly in her seat, her foot pumping the pedal gently now, coaxing the old engine. Her other hand gripped the wheel, fingers drumming. The 

Mustang coughed once… twice… then rumbled to life.

She smiled.

“Good girl.”

And with that, she slipped into gear and rolled out into the day.

Jenny pulled up to the exit of the parking lot, slowing as she waited for traffic to clear. The Mustang rumbled softly beneath her… until suddenly, it gave a 

low sputter and died.

Her brow furrowed. She twisted the key again—nothing but a sluggish whirr.

“Seriously?” she muttered.

She pumped the gas pedal gently with her wedge, the nude pantyhose on her foot flexing inside the shoe. Another twist of the key. Still nothing.

Jenny rocked forward in her seat, trying to coax life into the stubborn engine. Her wedge pressed the pedal again and again—pump, pause, twist. The 

Mustang only coughed and fell silent.

Traffic rolled by in front of her, oblivious. A horn honked somewhere, though no one was directly waiting.

Her cheeks flushed slightly—not from embarrassment, but frustration. She leaned back, then forward again, her whole body moving with each press of 

her foot. Still the same: no roar, no catch, no sign of cooperation from the engine.

She rested her forehead on the steering wheel for a moment, then exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” she said to the Mustang. “We’re not done yet.”

Her hands gripped the wheel again. Her pantyhose-clad foot returned to the pedal with resolve.

Jenny sat up straight, jaw tight, and turned the key again with more urgency.

Nothing.

She let out a sharp sigh and pressed the gas pedal harder—once, twice, again and again—her beige wedge bouncing in quick rhythm, the pantyhose 

clinging snugly to the flex of her ankle and calf. The engine gave only a hollow whump in response, teasing a start, but not delivering.

She paused, foot hovering for a breath. Then she pressed again, more vigorously this time. The pedal sank with each rapid motion beneath her wedge, 

the soft thump of rubber against metal echoing faintly inside the cabin.

Whirr… whirr… sputter… silence.

Jenny clenched the steering wheel tighter, leaning forward as if willing the Mustang to cooperate. Her body rocked slightly with each desperate pump, 

her foot bouncing in determined bursts. Her breath grew shallow, the warm building in the car, in her nerves.

"Come on," she said under her breath, giving the key another crank.

The engine coughed once… then nothing.

She leaned back in the seat, chest rising and falling, lips parted in disbelief. The car was stubborn—more so than usual—and today, it had picked the 

worst moment to prove it.

Outside, the sun blazed down, and cars passed by without a glance. Inside, Jenny sat still for a beat, her leg trembling slightly from effort.

But she wasn’t ready to give up yet.

Jenny’s patience snapped.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, more to herself than to the Mustang.

She took a breath, planted her wedge firmly on the gas pedal, and floored it, holding it down to the carpet. The nylon of her pantyhose stretched tight 

over her foot, her toes pressing hard into the sole of the shoe.

With her other hand, she twisted the ignition again — and held it.

The starter motor groaned, spinning long and slow, trying, straining — but never catching.

Whirrrrrrrr… whirrrrrrr… whirrrrrrrr…

Still nothing.

Jenny gritted her teeth, jaw tight, eyes narrowing on the empty road ahead as if sheer will could bring the car to life. Her foot stayed planted, unwavering, 

even as the pedal started to feel warm beneath it. The engine coughed once — a dry, teasing sputter — then fell silent again, still refusing to fire.

The battery was strong. The fuel had to be there. But the Mustang was dead set on not moving.

She finally released the key. The silence afterward was deafening.

Her foot came off the pedal slowly, hesitantly, as though letting go meant accepting defeat — but she wasn’t ready to surrender yet.

Jenny sat back in the seat, staring ahead. For a long moment, she didn’t move.

Then she looked down again at the pedal. Her expression hardened.

“All right,” she whispered. “You want to play hardball?”

Jenny clenched the wheel tighter, her determination now fused with frustration. She glanced down and began pumping the gas pedal again — hard, fast, 

and unrelenting. Her beige wedge bounced rapidly, her pantyhose shimmering as her foot worked the pedal with sharp, insistent motions.

Thud-thud-thud, the sound echoed softly inside the quiet cabin, matching the rhythm of her rising pulse. She leaned forward as she pumped, her body 

rocking in sync with the frantic motion of her foot. The smell of fuel was faint now — a whisper of too many tries, too much effort.

Finally, she stopped, her foot hovering, and twisted the key again.

Click… whirr…

Nothing.

No turnover, no cough, not even a false promise.

Jenny’s heart sank.

She stayed still for a moment, the key still held forward, listening — hoping. But the Mustang remained silent, stubborn as ever.

She slowly let go of the ignition and leaned back in the seat. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, frustrated rhythm. Outside, the world moved on — cars 

passed, birds chirped, the sun climbed higher — but inside the Mustang, time had stopped.

Jenny looked down at the gas pedal once more. Her leg trembled faintly from the effort.

But she wasn't out of fight yet.

Jenny sat in silence for another moment, the quiet of the dead engine and her own breathing filling the cabin. Finally, she exhaled and glanced around.

The parking lot was empty.

Everyone else had already left for work — their spaces long abandoned, just oily spots on the pavement where engines had started easily and pulled 

away. She was the last one. Of course.

With a sigh, she reached for the door handle and stepped out into the morning air. The door creaked slightly as it swung shut behind her. She paused 

for a second, smoothing the back of her short black skirt and tugging gently at her pantyhose, making sure they sat perfectly before she straightened her posture.

The sun hit her legs full-on now, casting soft shadows along the smooth nylon sheen. Her beige wedges made muted clicks on the asphalt as she walked 

slowly toward the front of the car.

As she reached the hood, several horns blared suddenly — cars speeding by on the road just beyond the parking lot’s edge. Jenny stepped back instinctively, 

her skirt fluttering slightly in the breeze from a passing truck.

She glanced toward the traffic, eyes narrowing, lips pressed in a flat line. For a moment, she felt exposed — her Mustang stalled at the exit like a stubborn 

mule, and nothing but hot pavement and indifference around her.

She rested her hand on the warm metal of the hood, trying to decide what to do next. The engine wasn’t cooperating. Her phone was in her purse on the 

passenger seat. And she hated the thought of calling for help — especially when she’d always been the one to fix things herself.

Still… something had to give.

Jenny unlatched the hood with a soft clunk. She opened it and stared blankly at the mass of hoses, wires, and metal. It wasn’t that she didn’t know what 

to look for — she'd tinkered with this old Mustang before — but right now, nothing obvious jumped out. No loose wires, no leaking fluids, no smoking mystery.

Just silence.

She let the hood stay open and walked back around, her wedges tapping lightly on the pavement. She opened the door, slid back into the driver’s seat,

 and left her left foot on the warm asphalt, her leg stretching slightly out from beneath her skirt. The open door creaked a little in the breeze as it hung 

wide beside her.

She looked down, her right foot returning instinctively to the gas pedal. The smooth pantyhose on her leg shimmered faintly as she gave it a few firm 

pumps. Once. Twice. Three times. Then a quick flurry. Her wedge thudded dully against the pedal with each motion.

She turned the key.

Whirrrrr… click… whirrrrr…

Still nothing.

The engine gave no cough, no sputter, not even the hollow sound of a false start this time. Just the empty whine of a starter growing tired. Jenny let go 

of the key and leaned back in the seat, staring at the sky through the windshield.

Her foot slid off the pedal and came to rest again on the floor. Her other still dangled lightly outside the car, toes touching the hot pavement.

This was turning into a bad day.

She ran her fingers through her hair, glancing once more at the open hood. The car wasn’t moving, traffic was long gone, and the sun was rising higher 

— warmer. She felt the fatigue in her leg, the frustration in her chest.

But she wasn’t ready to give up.

Not yet.

Jenny sat still for a moment, heat collecting in the cabin, the scent of fuel hanging faintly in the air. With a sigh, she reached up and gathered her long 

hair in one hand, pulling it away from her neck. She twisted it lightly and draped it over her left shoulder, the ends brushing against her collarbone.

The heat, the silence, the stubborn car — it was all pressing in now. But she wasn’t done.

She set her jaw, slid her foot back onto the pedal, and pressed it all the way down — flooring it. The wedge of her shoe dug into the carpet, her 

pantyhose-covered leg tense and extended. Her hand turned the key again.

Whirrrrrrrr… whirrrrrrr… whirrrrrrrr…

She held it there, eyes fixed on the dashboard. Ten seconds. Fifteen.

The engine groaned… strained… but gave nothing back. No spark, no kick, not even a false start. Just the relentless spin of the starter, over and 

over again.

Finally, she let go.

Silence again.

Jenny blew out a breath and pushed the door open wider. She stepped out, smoothing her skirt automatically and brushing her hands over her hips. 

The sun beat down now, full and merciless, casting a glint off the Mustang’s open hood.

She walked around the front again, her steps slower this time. She paused and stared down into the engine bay, one hand resting on the frame.

Same hoses. Same wiring. Same heat rising like a haze.

And still, no answers.

She leaned in a little closer, scanning every familiar part with narrowed eyes, as if the engine might confess its problem if she stared long enough.

Whatever it was… it wasn’t going to be a quick fix.

Jenny stepped back from the open hood and looked around.

The road beyond the parking lot had quieted. Morning rush hour was over, and now only the occasional car passed — a quiet hum in the background. 

No one honked this time. No one slowed down.

She turned her gaze toward the lot. Empty spaces stretched behind her, the same ones everyone had pulled out of hours earlier. Just faded white lines 

on cracked asphalt, shimmering faintly in the growing heat.

She looked back at her Mustang — stranded right at the exit, angled awkwardly like it had tried and failed to escape.

Jenny wiped her hands, then rested them on her hips. “Maybe,” she said softly.

Could she push it back?

It wouldn’t be easy. The Mustang was old-school heavy, and she wasn’t exactly dressed for a solo towing job — pantyhose, wedges, and a skirt weren’t 

helping. But she’d pushed it once before, and the thought of leaving it sitting there like a wounded animal at the edge of the lot gnawed at her.

She stepped to the driver’s side and opened the door wider, scanning the terrain. Slight incline, but not too bad. If she could get it rolling just a little, 

maybe she could guide it into one of the spots a few feet back.

Maybe.

Jenny took a breath and glanced down at her legs — smooth — then braced herself against the door.

"Okay, girl,” she murmured to the car. “Let’s move.”

Jenny leaned her shoulder into the edge of the doorframe, hands gripping the inside of the window. She planted her feet firmly, angled her body, and 

gave the Mustang a solid push.

Nothing.

She gritted her teeth, repositioned herself, and tried again — harder this time. Her legs flexed, her arms shook with effort. The old car barely even rocked.

The pavement beneath her wedges was dusty and slick in the heat. Her right foot slipped slightly, the smooth sole of her wedge giving way against the 

ground. She caught herself, breathing harder now, and tried again.

Push. Strain. Slip.

Her left foot lost grip this time, the nylon catching just enough to make her ankle twist awkwardly in her shoe. She stumbled back a step, catching her 

balance with a quiet gasp.

The Mustang didn’t move an inch.

Jenny stood there, chest rising and falling, strands of hair now falling from behind her shoulder. Her pantyhose had picked up specks of grit from the 

pavement, and her wedges were beginning to scuff.

She rested her hands on the car again, head bowed, and closed her eyes for a moment. Her body wasn’t giving up, but her strength was running on fumes.

The car was just too heavy. Too stubborn. Like the day itself.

She opened her eyes, looked up at the sky, and gave a quiet, half-laugh of disbelief.

his wasn’t how her morning was supposed to go.

Jenny opened the driver’s door slowly and lowered herself back into the seat, the warmth inside the car wrapping around her like a blanket. She left 

the door open, letting the occasional breeze stir the silence.

She sat quietly, eyes unfocused, staring through the windshield at nothing in particular.

Her hand found the key again but didn’t turn it.

Instead, her right foot, still in its beige wedge, returned to the gas pedal almost absentmindedly. She began to pump it gently — slow, rhythmic motions. 

The pantyhose on her foot creased slightly with each press, the motion more meditative than mechanical now.

Tap… tap… tap.

No urgency. No frustration. Just something to do while she thought.

Could she call someone? Wait for a tow? Walk somewhere for help?

None of the options felt good. None of them felt like her. She hated depending on anyone for something she usually handled herself.

Her foot continued its soft, steady pumping. The pedal sank under her sole each time with a quiet thud, a physical beat to match the swirl of thoughts in 

her head.

Outside, the day moved on. But inside the Mustang, Jenny sat still — calm, but deeply tired — her hands resting loosely on the steering wheel, her body 

slack with quiet defeat.

And yet… she hadn't taken the key out of the ignition.

Not yet.

Her fingers curled slowly around the key.

Just one more try.

With a quiet breath, Jenny turned it.

Whirrr… whirrrr… sputter—chug—cough—

The Mustang sprang to life — weakly, but there it was. A spark of hope.

Her eyes widened and her foot moved fast, instinctively pumping the gas pedal in quick, urgent taps, trying to coax the engine to stay alive.

Vrrrmm—chug—vrrmmm… putt… putt…

The sound was uneven, strained — like an old man clearing his throat. The revs rose a little, then dipped again. She could feel it — the engine struggling, 

resisting her every effort to keep it awake.

“Come on, come on,” she whispered, pressing the pedal gently, then more firmly.

But the noise faded. The rumble softened… stumbled… until it gave one last cough and faded into a whisper of silence.

The engine died — slow and final.

She sat still, foot hovering above the pedal, heart sinking again.

That was the closest it had come all morning.

And now, it was gone again.

Jenny let her head fall back against the seat, eyes closed, the lingering smell of exhaust drifting in through the open hood.

It had almost started.

Almost.

Jenny opened her eyes slowly, her jaw set now. She wasn’t giving up. Not when it had come that close.

Her right foot slid back onto the gas pedal, and she began to pump again — steady and deliberate. Her pantyhose stretched and flexed over her ankle 

as her wedge tapped the pedal over and over, hoping, willing life back into the machine.

Then, she turned the key.

Whirrrrrrr… whirrrrrrr… whirrrrrrr…

The crank dragged on, long and stubborn. Her foot kept moving — pressing the pedal, then easing off, then pressing again. The Mustang groaned, whined…

 then finally—

Chug-chug-chug-vrrmmm…

The engine sputtered to life — rough, shaky, but running. Jenny gasped quietly, her hands gripping the wheel. Her foot feathered the gas, trying to steady 

it, to give it the breath it needed.

But it wasn’t enough.

Put-put… chug…

The RPMs dropped again. Her foot pushed the pedal once more, a desperate tap-tap-tap…

Put… put… click.

The engine died again.

Jenny stared ahead, motionless.

It had started.

And it had quit.

Again.

The silence afterward felt heavier this time — not just mechanical, but personal. The car had almost listened. Almost trusted her.

She leaned forward slowly, elbows resting on the wheel, and let out a long breath through her nose.

One more try?

Maybe.

But she knew… the Mustang was testing her now.

Jenny sat back in the seat, her hands loose on the wheel, her foot resting steadily on the gas pedal. No more tapping, no more frantic pumping — just a 

gentle, even pressure. The pedal sank beneath her wedge-clad foot, her pantyhose faintly shimmering in the stillness.

She looked around.

The road was completely empty now. The rush of morning traffic had long since passed. There were no more honking horns, no more curious glances from 

passing drivers. Just silence, heat, and the soft tick of her engine cooling again.

Everyone else was at work. Offices had opened. Phones were ringing. Coffee was being poured in break rooms.

And she was still here — in the same spot, with the same silent car.

Her eyes drifted toward the open hood, then back to the steering wheel. She didn’t even bother brushing her hair out of her face anymore. The weight of 

the day was settling on her shoulders like the rising sun — warm and heavy and inescapable.

Her foot pressed just a bit deeper into the gas, not to start it, not even to try again — just to feel something respond. But the pedal gave no resistance, 

no feedback.

Just the dull reminder of everything that wasn’t working.

She exhaled slowly.

There was no one to flag down. No shade to wait under. And no easy answer in sight.

And still… she hadn’t taken the key out of the ignition.

Not yet.

Jenny leaned forward in her seat, the worn vinyl creaking softly beneath her. Her elbows rested lightly on the steering wheel as her head bowed. The 

open door let in a faint, warm breeze, but it did little to ease the weight on her shoulders.

She paused there, still and silent.

Then slowly, almost mechanically, her right foot moved. She began to pump the gas pedal again — once… twice… three times… then a flurry of quick 

presses. The soft rhythm filled the car like a heartbeat. Her beige wedge rose and fell, pantyhose-clad ankle flexing with each motion, trying to find that 

perfect timing, that perfect pressure.

She stopped.

Her foot rested gently on the pedal.

Her hand hovered near the key — not turning it yet.

Instead, she closed her eyes.

And breathed.

A long, slow inhale. Deeper than before. Not just to steady herself — but to gather something from within. Patience. Hope. Whatever bit of control she 

still had.

Her chest rose and fell. The quiet hum of the morning pressed around her.

Stillness.

Silence.

One more breath.

Then, when she was ready…

With her eyes still closed, Jenny finally turned the key.

Whirrrrrr… whirrrr… whirrrrrr…

The engine cranked, long and hard — just like before. Her foot stayed steady on the gas, pressing down with quiet determination.

Whirrrr… whirrrr… whirrrr…

No sputter this time. No cough, no flicker of life.

Just the dry, mechanical whine of the starter spinning — hollow and lifeless.

She opened her eyes slowly, staring at the dashboard, waiting… hoping for something. Anything.

But it didn’t come.

The engine refused.

She let go of the key. The sound stopped, leaving only the open silence around her again.

Jenny’s hand dropped from the ignition. Her shoulders sank.

That was it. Not even a flicker this time.

She leaned back against the seat, staring at the roof of the car, lips slightly parted — not in frustration, but in quiet resignation.

The Mustang had made up its mind.

And now… so would she.

Jenny sat still for just a few seconds longer, then reached for the door. With a slow push, she swung it open and rolled herself out of the car.

Her wedges touched the pavement first, then her legs straightened as she stood. She didn’t even glance back at the ignition.

The hood stayed up — she left it that way deliberately. A small signal to the world that the Mustang needed help, even if she wasn't going to be the one 

to fix it right now. If someone came by, maybe they’d see it. Maybe they’d understand.

She closed the driver’s door gently behind her. The click of it echoed across the empty lot.

The air was warmer now, but a breeze had begun to pick up. As she turned to walk, the wind tugged at her black miniskirt, lifting the hem high enough 

to catch the light. She reached for it, then stopped — and let it go.

She didn’t mind.

Let the wind have its way. Let the morning do what it wanted.

Her legs moved steadily beneath her, long and graceful in her nude pantyhose. Each step in her wedges clicked softly against the pavement as she 

walked away from the car. Her hair, loose now, drifted over her shoulder again.

She didn’t look back.

Not this time.

The Mustang could wait.

Right now, all Jenny wanted was the quiet of her apartment, a cold glass of water, and a moment to breathe.

The day hadn’t gone her way — but it hadn’t broken her either.

Not even close.

Back in her apartment, Jenny moved without rushing.

She stepped out of her wedges and set them neatly by the door. Her skirt followed soon after, sliding down to the floor in a soft whisper of fabric. She left 

her pantyhose on — they clung to her legs like a second skin, already part of the day’s story.

From a nearby drawer, she pulled out a pair of old denim shorts — broken in, soft at the seams. She stepped into them and slid them up over her hips, 

buttoning them with a quiet click.

Then she grabbed her tennis shoes from under the small kitchen table. The soles were worn, the laces frayed, but they still did the job. She stepped into 

them easily, her pantyhose-covered toes finding their place inside.

She stood for a moment, adjusting the shorts slightly, brushing a hand down her thigh.

This outfit didn’t make her feel polished or composed like the one before — but it made her feel capable. Like maybe she could do something more than wait.

Maybe she’d try the engine again. Maybe she’d just check the wires one more time.

She didn’t know exactly what she expected as she walked back out into the warm air — but she was done sitting still.

The Mustang wasn’t going to fix itself.

But maybe, just maybe, it would finally meet her halfway.

Jenny settled into the driver’s seat again. The fabric of her old shorts shifted as she moved, her legs stretched out comfortably, her pantyhose now 

slightly dusty. The familiar scent of the Mustang's interior wrapped around her like an old sweatshirt — warm, worn, and dependable in its own stubborn way.

She placed her foot on the gas pedal and gently pressed it.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

There was no rush this time, no panic in her motions — just a quiet rhythm, a practiced calm. The pedal dipped beneath her pantyhose-covered foot, 

the movement smooth and steady.

She paused, hand on the ignition, eyes on the cracked dashboard.

Then she turned the key.

Whirrrr… whirrrr… whirrrr…

Nothing.

Not even a stutter this time. No spark. No sputter. Just the mechanical spin of a crank going nowhere.

She held it a moment longer, then let go.

Silence.

The engine hadn’t even tried.

Jenny sat back, hand slipping from the key, foot resting again on the pedal. Her eyes drifted to the open hood, then to the empty lot around her.

It was starting to feel less like the car was broken — and more like it just didn’t want to come with her.

Jenny leaned forward slightly, lips pressed in a firm line. Her foot moved again, pressing the gas pedal slowly, then a little faster. She pumped it several 

more times — more out of hope than reason now.

Then, one more try.

She twisted the key.

Whirrrrr… whirrrr…

Still nothing. Not a pop. Not a cough. Not even a flicker of life. The engine remained as cold and unmoved as it had been an hour ago.

She let go of the key and stared through the windshield for a long moment, the silence thick in the air around her.

Her hands dropped to her lap.

Her foot slipped off the pedal.

Maybe… maybe she could push it.

She turned and looked out across the lot. The incline was shallow — maybe enough to ease it into a spot where it wasn’t exposed, hood up like a 

surrender flag. It wasn’t much, but it would feel like she’d done something.

She sighed, opened the door, and stepped out into the sun again.

There was no one else around.

Just her, the Mustang, and the quiet hum of a city already moving on without her.

She placed her hands on the doorframe, braced herself…

And considered giving it one more push.

Jenny stepped away from the open driver’s door and walked slowly to the front of the Mustang. Her shoes scuffed quietly against the pavement, and 

the breeze had faded — replaced by still, late-morning warmth.

She paused at the front bumper, placed her hands on her thighs, and rubbed them lightly — wiping away the nervous sweat, grounding herself.

Her legs felt heavy. Her arms, already tired. But she squared her shoulders and turned to face the car.

Hands reached out and found the warm metal of the hood. She planted her feet carefully — the rubber soles of her worn tennis shoes sliding slightly 

against the pavement. She adjusted her stance.

And then she pushed.

At first, nothing happened. The weight of the Mustang pushed right back — unmoved, stubborn, like it was part of the ground now.

Jenny gritted her teeth and pushed harder, muscles straining, feet braced, her pantyhose-covered legs flexing as she leaned into it.

Still no movement.

She backed off a step, exhaled, and shook out her arms.

Then she tried again — this time with a burst of force, hips leaning into the motion, feet slipping just slightly on the pavement.

The car creaked… just barely.

But it didn’t move.

She stood up straight, breathing hard now, her palms smudged with faint traces of dust and effort.

The Mustang wouldn’t budge.

Not today.

Jenny lowered herself back into the seat, legs folding in quietly as the springs groaned beneath her. The sun was higher now, warming the dash, warming 

her skin. She didn’t even bother brushing the hair from her face this time.

She closed the door with a dull thud, rested both hands on the wheel, and let out a quiet sigh — not of frustration anymore, but of sheer, worn-out 

determination.

Her right foot found the gas pedal again.

She pumped it — gently at first. Once. Twice. Then faster. Her pantyhose-covered foot moved with steady rhythm, pressing the pedal with practiced 

precision.

Then she turned the key.

Whirrrr… whirrrr… sputter—cough—chug—

The engine caught.

Jenny’s breath hitched.

Vrrrm… putt… putt…

She tapped the gas, urging it to live. The engine hesitated, trembled — then the RPMs dipped again, uncertain.

Chug… putt…

She kept pumping — gently now, trying not to flood it.

But it was no use.

The sputter softened.

And the engine died.

click…

Gone again.

She sat back in the seat, eyes fixed on the dash. No anger. No shock.

Just the quiet ache of hope slipping through her fingers once more.

But something had changed. This time, it had almost stayed running.

Maybe next time… it would.

Jenny didn’t wait this time.

Her fingers closed around the key again. She turned it.

Whirrrrrr… whirrrr… sputter—cough—chug…

The engine gave the same stubborn response — a flicker of life, a rough stutter like it was clearing its throat.

She pressed the gas again — gently, then firmer.

Putt… chug…

But within seconds, it faded.

Click.

Dead.

Again.

Jenny let her hand fall from the ignition, slowly. Her eyes stayed on the dashboard, as if willing it to light up, to give her just one reason to try again.

But it stayed dark.

She sighed through her nose and shifted in her seat, looking out across the parking lot.

Still quiet.

A few distant cars passed by on the nearby road, but none turned in. The lot was still empty, her Mustang standing alone beneath the growing sun, hood 

still open like an unanswered question.

She leaned her head back against the seat, the fabric warm now, slightly scratchy against her skin.

Just her.

Just the car.

And a morning that refused to end.

Jenny slowly opened the door and stepped out of the car once more. The warm pavement met her shoes with a soft scuff as she stood and stretched her 

tired legs.

She paused beside the open door, running both hands lightly down the front of her thighs, brushing off the dust and grit that had clung to her pantyhose 

through all the starts, stops, and strain. Her fingers lingered at her knees for a moment — not fussing, just grounding herself.

The lot was still quiet.

Still hers.

With a last glance at the open hood — her silent, uncooperative Mustang — she closed the door gently behind her and turned toward her building.

She walked slowly, each step a little lighter than before, her tennis shoes barely making a sound. The morning heat clung to her skin now, but the 

apartment wasn’t far.

Just a glass of cold water.

Just five minutes to breathe.

Then… maybe she’d come back. Try again.

Or maybe — she’d call for help.

Either way, for now, she let the silence of the lot fall behind her as she walked home.

Not defeated.

Just tired.

The cool glass of water sweated gently in her hand as Jenny sat at the edge of her couch, still in her shorts and dusty tennis shoes, pantyhose faintly 

shimmering in the soft light spilling through the window.

She took a long sip, then set the glass down beside her.

Her fingers drifted to her thighs, brushing absently at first, then slowly tracing the smooth fabric of her pantyhose, as if comforting herself through touch 

alone. Her legs were tired, a little sore from pushing, pumping, pacing. But it wasn’t just her muscles that ached — it was the weight of memory pressing 

down.

Her eyes softened as her thoughts wandered.

That car — her Mustang — wasn’t just a car. It had been her first big splurge. Her escape. Her freedom. It had taken her to job interviews, late-night 

drives under the stars, awkward first dates, and long weekends where she didn’t know where she was going — just that she needed to go.

She remembered fixing the heater in late autumn with a friend who barely knew what he was doing… but they’d laughed until their ribs hurt. She remembered 

blasting music through its aging speakers, her hair whipping in the wind, her heels tossed in the passenger seat, just driving without a plan.

It had stalled before. It had let her down. But it had always come back to life — eventually.

Today felt… different.

But sitting there, rubbing her legs gently as the cold water cooled her palms, Jenny realized she wasn’t just frustrated.

She was attached.

Not because the Mustang was reliable — but because it had been there.

And maybe, if she gave it a little more time… it would be there for her again.

Jenny tilted the glass, watching the water swirl lazily before taking another sip. She rested it on her knee, the condensation cool against her skin and 

stared at nothing in particular.

Her mind wandered again — not just to the car, but to the moments around the car. The strange, quiet attention it sometimes brought her.

She thought back to that one afternoon in the student lot a few years ago — when the Mustang had sputtered through three long cranks before finally 

catching. She’d been flustered, hair everywhere, foot pumping the gas in frustration. And when she finally looked up, one of the guys from her class 

— Mark — had been standing a few spaces away, watching.

Later, over coffee, he admitted it.

"I don’t know what it is,” he’d said with an awkward laugh. “There’s just something about seeing you in that car, trying so hard to get it to start. I think it’s 

the look on your face — focused, determined, like nothing else exists.”

He hadn’t said it in a mocking way. Not at all.

It had been… oddly sweet.

A little weird, maybe — but not uncomfortable. Not with him. She’d blushed at the time, but it stuck with her.

The way someone could see something vulnerable — even frustrating — and still think of it as beautiful. That had mattered to her.

And now, sitting in her quiet apartment with scraped-up shoes and aching legs, Jenny realized something.

She was still that girl.

Still determined. Still trying. Still being watched, maybe — even if only by memory.

And maybe that engine out there, for all its noise and stubbornness, was a reflection of her too.

Tired… but not done.

Not yet.

Jenny stood by the door for a moment, then reached down and dusted off her feet. Bits of grit clung to the soles from the earlier effort. She brushed 

them away methodically, then reached for a pair of red flats tucked by the mat — simple, comfortable, with just a little charm.

She slid them on, the soft fabric hugging over her pantyhose with a quiet, familiar snugness.

She wasn't going to try pushing the car again. Not today. She was too small. Too tired. And the Mustang clearly had its own mind.

Instead, she walked back out slowly, the red of her shoes catching the morning light as she crossed the quiet lot once again.

She opened the door and lowered herself into the seat, her breathing calm now. There was no urgency left — just quiet determination. She pulled the 

door closed and settled back into the familiar space.

Her foot found the gas pedal once again.

And she began to pump.

Slow. Steady.

Then a little faster.

A rhythm.

The soft thud of her shoe pressing the pedal again and again filled the car in place of the engine’s silence. She kept going — minute after minute — her 

eyes not on the dash anymore, but somewhere distant.

Her thoughts had drifted.

Back to Mark.

To those long, strange afternoons when the car wouldn’t start, and he’d be there, leaning on the passenger side, teasing her gently, always ready to help

 — even when he didn’t know how.

"Don’t flood it!" he'd call out, even though he had no idea what that really meant. They’d laugh. She’d roll her eyes. Once, he brought snacks and they 

sat on the hood while waiting for her dad to call back.

They’d made a game of it. A ritual.

And somehow, a dead engine had felt like something that brought them closer.

Those memories softened her expression.

The Mustang was being difficult again… but it reminded her of something sweet. Something real. Something that had felt like possibility.

She kept pumping the gas — calmly, almost dreamily.

Still alone in the lot.

Still waiting for the moment it might all come back to life.

The steady rhythm of her foot on the gas pedal slowed as Jenny's mind slipped deeper into the memory. That day had been something else — unexpected 

and perfect in the most unusual way.

It was late fall, the trees along the back road just starting to turn. They’d taken the Mustang for a drive after class — no destination, just a meandering 

escape from responsibility. The road had been quiet, sun-dappled, leaves skittering across the pavement.

And then — true to form — the engine had sputtered out.

Right there, on a lonely stretch of forest road.

No signal. No help. Just them and the silence of the woods pressing in.

At first, she’d been frustrated. She’d pumped the gas, turned the key — same routine. But nothing.

Mark had leaned in through the open passenger window, watching her with that half-smile of his. Not mocking. Just… amused. Affectionate.

“You really wrestle that pedal like it owes you money,” he’d said.

She laughed, flushed, and rolled her eyes.

Then she looked up — and caught the way he was looking at her.

That expression.

Soft. Intent. Like she was the only person in the world.

That was when it happened.

He reached in, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, leaned forward just enough — and kissed her.

It wasn’t dramatic or forced. It was quiet, easy, just like the woods around them. Just like the moment.

And she had loved it.

Not just the kiss, but the absurdity of it all. Her stubborn old Mustang. Her foot still half on the pedal. Leaves falling slowly outside. Him looking at her 

like she was magic, even when she was sweaty, frustrated, and stranded.

It had been one of her favorite memories — and strangely, she wouldn’t have traded that dead engine for anything.

Back in the present, Jenny smiled faintly, the memory warming her from the inside.

She looked down at her foot, still resting gently on the pedal.

Then she reached for the key.

Maybe — just maybe — this time...

Jenny glanced down at her foot on the gas pedal — the gentle curve of her arch pressing into the worn rubber, the soft shimmer of her pantyhose catching 

the morning light that filtered through the windshield.

She smiled.

Mark had always noticed things most people didn’t. The way she brushed her hair behind her ear when she was focused. The way she bit her lip when the 

engine refused to cooperate. And yes… he had definitely noticed her legs.

At first, she’d only worn pantyhose because she liked how they felt — sleek, polished, like they gave her a little quiet confidence. But when she started 

catching him glancing down as she struggled with the car — her foot pressing and releasing, again and again — she realized he liked it too.

Not in a crude way.

Just in a soft, fascinated way. Like he was watching a moment unfold, appreciating the effort, the detail, the small beauty in something routine.

That particular day — the one in the woods — she remembered sitting in the same seat, wearing these exact red flats. He had definitely noticed. She 

remembered catching his eye and seeing that same, unmistakable expression: like the whole world had narrowed to that one small scene.

And now here she was again — alone, tired, but not unhappy. Her foot moved in a slow, steady rhythm, pumping the gas with quiet patience. No longer 

out of frustration… but almost in tribute.

To the car.

To the memory.

To him.

She smiled, wider now.

Some moments, no matter how inconvenient, became something more — something sweet.

And here she was again, right in the middle of one.

Still pressing gently.

Still waiting.

And still hopeful.

Jenny took a deep breath.

Her foot remained steady on the gas pedal, still gently working it in the familiar rhythm. One more try.

She reached for the key and turned it.

Whirrrr… whirrrr… whirrrr…

She didn’t let go.

Her foot moved in sync with the cranking — not frantic, just firm, coaxing the engine like an old friend who just needed a little extra push.

Whirrrr… sputter… sputter… cough…

Twenty seconds in, something shifted.

She felt it before she heard it — a change in the way the engine hesitated.

Then…

Chug… chug… putt… vrrrrrrmmm…

It caught.

Rough. Unsteady. But alive.

The engine idled like it was clearing its throat after a long sleep — shaky and low, threatening to quit again at any moment.

Jenny didn’t celebrate. She just moved.

She slipped the gearshift into reverse, tapped the gas lightly, and began easing the car out of its spot. Every slight movement of her foot was calculated, 

measured — one stall and it might be over again.

She backed the Mustang slowly across the empty lot and found a quiet corner, far from the road.

A safe place.

As she backed the car into the new space, the engine gave a final low rumble… then faded.

Puttt… putt… clunk.

Silence.

Jenny sighed, hand still on the gearshift, eyes fixed on the windshield.

The engine was off again.

But the car was out of the way.

For the first time all morning, the situation wasn’t getting worse.

She let her hands fall into her lap and leaned back into the seat, the stillness around her oddly peaceful.

Not quite victory — but maybe a draw.

And after everything… that felt like enough.

Jenny hesitated, hand resting lightly on the key.

Part of her already knew the answer. But curiosity tugged at her — the kind that creeps in when everything’s quiet and there's nothing left to lose.

She twisted the key again.

The starter groaned to life.

Whirrrr… whirrrr…

Her right foot pressed the gas pedal firmly to the floor. She watched it move — the red flat flexing, the nylon of her pantyhose catching the morning light 

again as the fabric stretched and shimmered with each motion.

She held the pedal down, engine still cranking.

Whirrrr… sputter… sputter… chug…

Fifteen long seconds passed.

Then, finally — it caught. Rough, uneven, coughing.

She eased off the key, letting the engine idle… if it could.

It didn’t last.

After a few seconds of trembling, low rumble, it choked out and stalled again. A soft, final sigh of mechanical protest.

Silence filled the car once more.

Jenny sat there, staring down at her leg — the pantyhose creased lightly around her knee, her foot now resting still on the pedal.

She imagined Mark standing outside the driver’s door, leaning on the roof with that crooked grin.

“He would’ve loved this,” she whispered to no one.

Not because she was stranded. But because these were the moments he always seemed to notice most. When she was all effort, all focus — and just 

a little stubborn.

She smiled faintly.

It wasn’t about the car, really. Not even the trouble.

It was about being seen — not just looked at, but seen — even in the struggle. Especially in the struggle.

Her fingers traced the soft hem of her shorts absentmindedly as her gaze lingered on her legs. There was something comforting about it all now. Familiar. 

Oddly warm, even as the morning cooled around her.

Maybe she’d call him.

Maybe not.

But the memory — the connection — was enough to make the whole frustrating ordeal feel like something… special.

Jenny’s fingers drifted across her thighs, slowly smoothing the soft nylon stretched over her skin. The familiar texture grounded her. Comforted her.

She reached for the key again.

Maybe this time.

She turned it — a little more firmly now — and pressed her foot into the gas pedal, pumping it slowly at first, then a little faster. She imagined him beside 

her, watching as he always did — not judging, not hurrying her. Just… there.

The engine cranked.

Whirrr… whirrr… whirrr…

Her foot moved steadily. Muscle memory. Frustration wrapped in hope.

Whirrr… sputter… sput—

No. Not even that.

Thirty long seconds passed.

The engine never caught.

She let go of the key and sat in the growing silence.

Eyes still on the dash, she could almost feel the presence of someone in the passenger seat. Could almost hear Mark’s voice — playful, patient.

"You're gonna kill that starter," he would’ve said with a soft laugh.

She smiled faintly. “It’s already halfway there.”

Her right foot rested gently on the pedal now, unmoving. The weight of her effort hung in the air like the humidity outside — heavy but quiet.

Maybe she wouldn’t get anywhere today.

But somehow, this still didn’t feel like failure.

It felt like memory. Like something still alive — even if the car wasn’t.

And for a moment longer, she let herself imagine he was sitting there with her.

Not to fix it.

Just to be with her in the moment.

That was always enough.

Jenny sighed quietly and reached for the key once more.

Maybe this time.

Her foot returned to the gas pedal, pressing it down steadily — not too fast, not too slow. Just firm and hopeful.

She twisted the key.

Whirrrr… whirrrr… whirrrr…

But the engine didn’t even sputter.

No cough.

No shake.

Just the dull, grinding rhythm of a machine too tired — or too stubborn — to give her anything more.

She let go of the key and leaned back against the seat.

Still.

The car was quiet again.

So was the parking lot.

The warm air hung heavy around her, no traffic passing, no voices in the distance. Just the soft creak of the car as it settled, and the faint pressure of her 

red flat on the lifeless pedal.

Jenny glanced at her reflection in the side mirror, then back down at her hands resting in her lap.

That was it.

At least for now.

And maybe that was okay.

Jenny’s fingers lingered on her thighs, brushing her soft pantyhose again — partly out of habit, partly to calm her nerves. The fabric still held warmth from 

the sun, and from all the effort she’d poured into this hopeless little battle.

She was ready to be done.

Ready to climb out, let it go, walk away.

Her hand reached for the door handle.

Then she paused.

"Okay," she murmured with a half-smile. "One more try. For Mark."

She settled back into the seat, straightened her legs just slightly, and placed her foot firmly on the gas pedal. She gave it a few purposeful pumps — slow, 

deliberate — then twisted the key.

Whirrr… whirrr… whirrr…

She kept her eyes on the windshield, but her mind was full of him — of the way he always leaned in a little closer when the engine hesitated. How his 

hand would hover near hers, not to take over, just to share the moment.

Whirrr… sputter… chug… sputter…

The engine almost caught.

Her heart jumped — but just for a second.

A weak cough. A shake.

And then… silence.

Click.

Jenny let her hand fall away from the key and sighed — not in frustration this time, but with a sense of quiet acceptance.

Maybe she had done enough.

Maybe this wasn’t the car’s day.

But it had still given her something — a memory, a feeling, a connection that hadn’t faded.

She looked down at her pantyhose-clad legs, still poised as if ready to try again, and smiled softly.

Mark would’ve grinned and called her “relentless.”

And maybe she was.

But right now… she was ready to step away.

At least for a little while.