I used to wonder what it feels like.

There were endless possibilities 

on what it would be.

Was it at the coffee shop?

I wondered. 

Was it to be found in a swirl of 

endless artificial flavors which would

all add up to what you call a

“Venti American Pie Frappuccino?”

Now the flavors had tasted real at first,

but once I had a closer look, almost every flavor

that you promised me was real in this coffee, 

turned out to be fake. 

The more I drank, the more I realized, 

and I wish I would have found out sooner 

that everything you told me about how authentic

this drink was, about how good it tasted, about

how it was worth the money, was all a false 

reality.

Since that day, I’ve never gone to a coffee shop.

It reminnds me of just how fake things in life can be.

Okay, so it definitely wasn’t felt in the coffee shop.

What about at that steakhouse?

I wondered.

We both got the “Top of the line,

Extra most-fabulous, Can’t beat it,

New York Strip Steak!”

Or at least, that’s what they

called it. 

To be honest, it didn’t just live up to

the name, it exceeded it!

I thought it was perfect.

The seasoning was just right, 

the taste was outstanding,

and it was cooked to a perfect

medium rare, just like I asked.

It was everything I had ever wanted

in a steak, and  

I loved it.

But you; you didn’t love it.

You liked it.

Or at least, you said you did.

But most people usually finish

food they like.

They’ll even take it to go if they’re

not hungry enough to finish it.

You didn’t.

And the thing is, you were hungry;

just not for steak.

You wanted a burger,

a slice of pizza,

a pulled pork sandwich, 

maybe even seafood, 

and whatever else it was

that you said you craved.

Just steak wasn’t one of them.

I ended up paying a whole lot for 

your uneaten dinner that night.

Now, at first, I’d never thought I’d 

be able to find it at a car dealership.

Still in debt from the steakhouse, 

I walked into the shop with little

to no expectations in 

finding anything at all;

and then, I saw her.

El Camino.

Made in 1979.

Now, she wasn’t perfect.

Her once sleek crimson red color

had faded quite a bit.

She had bumps and bruises

all over her.

And I was told her windshield was 

broken beyond repair,

yet the closer I looked at it,

it was just cracked.

Even I was hesitant to take

her for a test drive at first, 

and for good reason.

The ride was bumpy, at the start,

and we hit a lot of roadblocks.

I almost went back to the dealership,

and thought it was time to give up

on her.

I was seconds away from the dealership,

and just then, 

the wheel got a bit easier to control.

And so I thought to myself,

“Maybe she’s not so bad.”

So, I drove past the dealership.

All of the sudden, it was as if

the on cracks windshield slowly

fixed themselves, onne by one,

Making the view as clear as day.

And every time I put my foot on the

gas, the ride felt smoother and smoother,

so smooth that I floored it.

All the way home.

I used to wonder what it felt like.

But the day I took that car for a ride,

I didn’t have to wonder anymore.

I found out.

I know now.