Lane Unsworth

A sleek car drives down an area that is at once both metropolitan and completely peopleless. A sharply dressed man drives the car. Vroom vroom. He’s dressed sharply in a dark gray suit. Looking sharp. A voiceover says this car is smooth, bold, and the height of luxury. 

Luxury, the man laughs. He rubs his thumb on the crisp leather steering wheel, looking down at the wedding band on his finger. He shakes his head: luxury only numbs the pain.

The voiceover says to be inspired.

The sharply dressed man shakes his head: if he was more inspired, maybe his wife would still sleep in the same bed as him. The voiceover continues: be brazen, be bold, lease for zero down on the first month.

The sleek car pulls over to the many available parking spots in this urban center. Driving, that’s all he’s ever doing, driving away. The sharply dressed man’s tears hit the glossy dark wood finishing, making them only glossier. Suddenly angry, he throws the shiny watch into the trunk, which has been converted to third-row seating. The soundless engine fails to drown out his soft soft cries. He presses the button ignition: when did he become a button ignition guy? Jennifer’s gone and she’s taking the kids.

Jazz plays. Be bold.

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