[Speed]
He’d never get up to eighty like this—not naturally. His foot wouldn’t nudge the accelerator on the vintage Ford unless he gave it incentive. The glove box squeaked and clattered open. His deft fingers wandered over wrappers, like worn money, of a twice-folded line of Trojans, and past the tire-gauge, small, but heavy like a weapon. The dust of the ’65 Mustang’s manual clung to his fingers. And finally, behind a squishy pack of Watermelon Wave bubblegum, he found the proper motivation.
The cassette rattled cheaply as he pushed it blindly around the stereo, searching for the opening. When the car sucked it in, he nudged the volume up at least seven notches, and waited.
Rack-a-tack-a-tack-a-tack-a.
His toes curled. The bass broke up the engine’s steady rumble through his leather seat.
Rack-a-tack-a-tack-a-tack-a.
The tip of his steel-toed boot nudged downward. His dry lips puckered and his tongue flicked behind his open teeth as he whistled the warbling riff.
60 M.P.H. Better.
Without a stutter he shifted gears and revved upward. Sunlight shot off the black paneling like a tiny star. The fingertips of one hand gripped the searing rim of the wheel. His other dug around his back pocket, and slid out the once-smooth cardboard pack of Pall Malls. The edge of his knee replaced his hand on the wheel as he thumped the butt of the box. One lone soldier, white and daring, volunteered. He nudged the Mustang back into the left lane and flicked open his relic Zippo.
The cigarette rested comfortably at the corner of his mouth. His lighter’s tiny blue flame, protected by the cup of his hand, caught the edge of the paper and ignited. He spared only a split second to observe the bright orange it turned as he sucked deep. Smoke curled down his throat. It lingered in his lungs for the moment he held his breath, and shot out through his nostrils. The sooty tail end of it gripped the tarnished ring through his septum.
75 M.P.H.
He didn’t realize, with his eyes on the road, and his mind on the song, that the deadly burning mandarin of his cigarette matched the bundle of tulips riding shotgun. Their cellophane sheath crackled in the breeze. All he knew, or cared, was that that color was her favorite.
80 M.P.H.
He yanked the cigarette from his mouth and belted out the chorus. The difference between him and the singer reverberated in the air, his throat. He coughed on the high note, and replaced the cigarette. It bobbed as he kept up at a quieter volume.
He could almost hear the sound of her rapping out the drums against her milky length of thigh. Could almost feel the tips of her hair tickle his skin as it whips around her head in a fiery halo. If he focused, he might be able to smell the peach notes of her flesh still in the leather upholstery. Maybe.
It didn’t matter, much. He’d be home any minute.
