Juan must go.
His time has come. His number’s come up. He’s being downsized. We’re not going in the same direction. It’s not him, it’s me. We can still be friends.
Over five and a half he’s served me well and faithfully, my black Ibiza steed. North and south he’s travelled, suffered indignities, degradations and humiliations galore from my indifferent attentions, and now it is time for us to part ways.

Among the first of my friends to have a license, I was the first to have my own vessel, free for use at any time day or night – and use him I did, designated driver time after time, picking people up and dropping them home and always being the responsible one. Didn’t mind that too much, actually, though I missed the opportunity to drink some.
And since the move to Tel-Aviv Central, Juan was delegated mostly to commutes to work and back, enduring the grueling parking experience time after time just to rest – for days at a time, sometimes – while I walked around the attractions of the city. It’s time for him to find a better home.
Perhaps I will get a car from my future workplace, be that what it may. Perhaps not. Whatever happens, it’s time for a change.

He drove me around. He chilled me on muggy summer days. He blasted my music day and night. I never DID make out in the backseat, but I suspect that’s for the best.

Juan, ths one’s for you.