My Grandfather And His Pink Car
My grandfather, the company’s chairman, had an unmistakable obsession with pink.
Not only had he decorated his entire house in soft rosy hues, but he even had his newly purchased Rimac Nevera repainted in blush pink.
I was home for the summer. On the day he got his new car, he excitedly asked me to drive him to work.
We had just entered the underground parking garage when a black Rolls-Royce suddenly blared its horn and sped up to cut in front of me. It then slammed on the brakes without warning.
Unable to react in time, I crashed straight into it.
The driver lowered his window and cursed at me. His face was twisted with arrogance. “Are you blind? Vixen, can’t you drive?”
Swallowing my anger, I retorted, “You were the one who deliberately cut me off. How can you twist this around and blame me?”
He let out a mocking snort.
“You women in pink cars are hopeless drivers, yet you still blame others? You had it coming. You must be a new intern. Let me tell you something. You’ve just hit the chairman’s car. Get ready to go bankrupt!”
My grandfather and I exchanged a baffled look.
If that was the chairman’s car, what were we in?