Turn me on if you can MP4 N
She slammed the car door, as if this gesture could shake out all the stress of the day. The key turned in the ignition with difficulty—only a dry, unpleasant squeak responded. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. She pressed the gas pedal hard, as if it meant something. Again. And again. Key—squeak. Pedal—metal. Nothing. Anger surged. She slumped back in the seat, then leaned forward, almost jumping, pressing the pedal again and again. Her palm slammed hard on the steering wheel. The cabin was growing stuffy. Strands of hair stuck to her temples. She tugged at the collar of her blouse in frustration, trying to relieve some of the heat, took a deep breath, and turned the key again. She exhaled sharply, almost growled, and slammed the steering wheel again. Everything inside her was seething—anger, fatigue, helplessness. Her movements became abrupt, nervous, as if she were fighting the car as if it were a living being. Pause. Inhale. The key turned. The engine suddenly shuddered... and came to life. She froze for a second, disbelieving, then exhaled slowly. The tension ebbed as suddenly as it had come. She ran a hand through her hair, straightened her blouse, and straightened up as if nothing had happened. She put the car in gear and calmly pulled out, leaving behind both her anger and that absurd moment of fighting the stubborn car.