galloping horse

out of the house with the son to go to the local cafe
walk down the alley, around the corner into the new street market.
Markets are held on Fridays.

Walk on down towards the war memorial, a grotesque mass of statuary, freshly cleaned by a firm of stonemasons.
Pass that, and then there on the right is the cafe, cross the road.

The son selects a bottle of drink from the refrigerated shelving.
And the father orders a cup of coffee, and a piece of Schmalzgebäck.

Sit down and talk, as other people come and go, collecting their bakery orders, stopping for a cup of coffee.
Talk about computers, their memory requirements.

A large car is parked outside the glass front now, a huge sportscar, with a galloping horse on the centre of the wheel hubs, and a "5.0" lettered onto its flank in chromium plated letters. Despite the size, it seems only capable of transporting one person and the driver in comfort. The driver enters the cafe, he is angry faced now, perhaps because the grey short haired father and his red headed long haired son are sitting in the choice place by the window

He takes a stool and sits by the counter, drinking quickly in his discomfort.
The same man had a yellow sports car in the previous summer.
That one had the same horse motif
the same logo
the same expression of power and speed