The Parisienne

The Parisienne has disappeared, for good it appears. It used to be parked on Conrad. I walked by it every day with Cayce Jones and Inara.

It was one of those cars that you don't notice. Painted primer gray, it had few identifiable features. Front and back license plates were both missing. The interior didn't have so much as a gum wrapper. The windshield had a yellow sticker that granted Naval Base access, for the year 1997. Perhaps I could have glanced at the dashboard to see if there was a VIN, but that would have ruined the mystery.

Sometimes I would be walking the pair, and the Parisienne wasn't there. I wondered what types of errands the owner of the car used it for. I considered the mundane and the nefarious. If the owner was out scoring drugs, it was a very non-descript vehicle. But the lack of provenance would rightfully produce curiosity in a policeman.

Maybe the owner was a little old lady who used the car to pick up her prescriptions, or visit her grandchildren. That way, when she was inevitably stopped and questioned, there would at least be a slight chance the officer would let her on her way. When the car was out, I always wondered if it was on its last voyage.

Yet time after time, the vehicle found its way back to its usual parking spot. Maybe the car has a cloak of invisibility, and only I can see it.

Alas, it's been a gone a month. The Parisienne won't be coming back this way, ever.