Desert Viper

Oppressive dry heat. To lean forward meant sweat rolling along my forehead, only to stream and occult my gaze of the war machine before me. She had a temporary home in a worn out hangar. Despite her disheveled appearance from her regular upkeep, she looked as fast and vicious stationary as she did when screamed down the runway. My ratchet spins between her struts for hours trying desperately to place an inducer in her wheel well. Time erases my memory of my height and hers. I stand to observe my small victory. She violently kisses me on the head. Smack!