Your car is that pretty magenta of raspberry sherbet. Parked always between two black clones, it is a flower blooming through concrete. It suits you. I wonder if you are bursting into color through me.
My boot rests black against the dashboard, and my arm is engulfed in smoke spraying feverishly from the glowing end of my cigarette as it hangs obediently out the window. Your car smells clean, and you want to keep it that way. You are pure, and I would protect you if I could.
Sunglasses swallow your eyes, and your glossed smile is content when your face turns to me, your hair whipping happily against your perfect porcelain skin, cheeks painted pink with summer sunshine.
I have trouble now pretending to be unimpressed, and I cannot help the smile that lights on my lips before my cigarette presses into my mouth. The expressway offers us a home for the moment, and, with the windows rolled down, and the speedometer nearing seventy, even through my dark glasses, the world is bright.