Please excuse me if I find a running car sexy, especially if it's dirty and used, coke cans scattered across the dash, spilled on rotten cushions, the sound of a radio whispering through its slightly cracked window somebody's car — someone with a soul, with possessions, an eroding history pitted inside a car, still running.And me, a tad bit voyeuristic, watching and waiting, the culmination of will-they-ever-come-for-the-get-away or will the car just stall there, idling?
