Kafka paused and turned, brows knit. "Okay, but seriously, Mom, why this car?" He asked, gesturing to the machine. "You don't strike me as the kind of person who wants to peel rubber or hit 200 on the freeway."
"...This thing's built for speed freaks, not...you. So what made you buy it?"
Olivia looked down, playing with her hands as her cheeks warmed.
"You're right, I'm not looking for thrills." She admitted, her voice small. "I don't speed, don't race. But the way it's built...the design, the precision, the raw brainpower behind it—it fascinates me."
"...All that speed and grace, made from steel and thought. It's like art. That's why I got it." Her voice steadied as she spoke from the heart.
Kafka nodded slowly, crouching by a tire, brushing a hand across it. "So it's the engineering, not the speed." He said with a smile. "That's actually awesome. You're geeking out over how it's made, not what it can do....That's so you."
