I mean, honestly.

It's not even your car. It's your brother's car parked at the shopping centre. It's your brother's car driving the other way on the bridge (as the pelicans melting into the streetlights present me with their bottoms). It's your brother's car following me home. Forget for a second that despite it being etched on my retina a while back I now can't remember the registration number. Forget also that I'm not absolutely sure of the colour. Forget for dessert that your brother wouldn't know my car if he were served it on a sandwich. That he wouldn't know me if I were served to him on a sandwich.
I mean, really, it's been a couple of months. I'm down to feeling vaguely wistful about the whole experience. Tailing me on your behalf - is this the pathetic extent of my imagination?