Last night, I rode in the backseat of an old black limousine. I sat sideways in the second row, on my knees pressed into the vinyl grey seat, resting against a putrid green side panel.
The ceiling, drooping and tangled, dammed the sunroof track. I ripped the material and tucked it into itself. The rush of fresh wind began slapping all of us; we cheered. My long hair whipped madly around me, sticking in my drying grin.
We traveled forward, along a highway. I pulled my hair, trying to contain it behind my ears. I couldn’t stop smiling. He was in there, too.
I can’t remember if he sat in front or the row behind me. I think he was in the third row. I knew he wanted me. But we stayed apart. The muscles around my lips ached from smiling into the wind and craving him.
Just going. Riding. Sunshine spilled in through the sunroof. From the front windshield. All the riders. He ignored me. I ignored him. We enjoyed our own space, the same wind, and the understanding that our destination would join us.
I was young last night. In that cracked vinyl limousine and we were all young.
Then awake. With dawn. Light.
it felt real