As if the SUV is not a clear enough advertisement for their stupidity.
The light turns green. Parvaneh brings up the clutch, the Saab splutters, and the instrument panel goes black.
Stressed, Parvaneh turns the key in the ignition, which only makes it grind in a heartrending manner.
The engine makes a roar, coughs, and dies anew. The men with the shaved heads and tattooed throats sound the horn.
One of them gestures. “Press down the clutch and give it more gas,” says Ove.
“That’s what I’m doing!” she answers. “That’s not what you’re doing.”
“Yes I am!” “Now you’re shouting.” “I’M NOT BLOODY SHOUTING!” she shouts.
The SUV blares its horn. Parvaneh presses down the clutch.
The Saab rolls backwards a few inches and bumps into the front of the SUV.
The Throat Tattoos are now hanging on the horn as if it’s an air raid alarm.
Parvaneh tugs despairingly at the key, only to be rewarded by yet another stall.
Then suddenly she lets go of everything and hides her face in her hands.
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