Home felt like a house when we grabbed the keys and made our way down the winding staircase into the brisk October.
Vespertine sounds greeted us as we took in the welcoming darkness. We were delinquents in a modest neighbourhood.
Draped in PJs we all but ran to the car.
Keys in the ignition. A moment's hesitation.
"Just drive," she said.
The V8 roared to life, lights illuminated the ashen asphalt, we took off, burnt rubber left hanging in our wake.
The roof pulled down, the wind weaved through our hair and stung our eyes. Refreshing, reinvigorating.
She pushed in a CD, drums and electric guitars sprang to life from the speakers and I squeezed the accelerator, putting more distance between us and the rest of the reality.
I laughed. Everything weighing me down now a halfbaked vapour drifting away in our slipstream. She smiled, eyes closed, making my heart do the two-step.
We were free. We were moving. Fast.
Time lost meaning in the din of motor and music, we drove aimlessly, the empty roads a heaven-sent.
Nothing but endless skies above us, she raised her arms, embracing the universe. We were lost in blissful detachment; nothing mattered but here and now and us.
A hilltop park beckoned us. Stationary wheels did not stay our spirits. We needed to be loud.
But speaker-fueled ambience was unbecoming. She grabbed her guitar from the backseat.
Copper strings strummed the still air. The universe hummed along.
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