I stand out on the balcony and watch the cars, twenty-seven stories below me. Our number. It's hard to tell how fast they're going from way up here. They all look like little fireflies inching to get to their Evangelines. So many cars in the world and so many significant stories for each. Your car is our place, our little bubble. Our private sphere where we say hello along with a quick kiss on the lips, where we fill each other in on what we missed and the funny stories of the day. Your car, that has brought us on beach trips and parties and dinners. Where our friends sit in the back and we all feel like a happy family, driving through fast food joints and dropping fries on the floor. Where you still hold my hand if I'm sad, and put your arm around me if I'm crying, even if it's a manual. Where we scream out the window on the highway because our mothers make our veins bloat and college doesn't seem to give us a break. Where we laugh until our stomachs hurt, and sing along to the songs on the radio in falsetto. Where conversations only end when the road does. Where we have our most bittersweet goodbyes because you know you'll have to go home alone at the end of the day, and only our little tradition makes it somewhat easier. We've shared more interesting places but I'd much rather be at the in between of where we were and where we have yet to go. Who knew we would spend thirty-three months driving around in that car?
