Sorry, friends list, for seeing this crap story twice.
I traced the outline of a singular vein that made routes and interstates along her arm. Destination: -pulse. She blew wisps of hair from of her eyes and choreographed her fingers to the cadence of the thunder. I watched the clouds as they birthed minuscule teardrops, collapsing onto the windshield with so much strength that I felt my body quake. The dashboard provided silhouettes of the raindrops as they danced along to the decaying sunlight. The clouds clapped and her breath shook. I could feel my heart clamoring beneath my breasts and my hands trembling beneath my thighs.
She was a boy. She wore a bright red scarf so tight around her neck that it's a surprise she didn't asphyxiate on her own breath. Or choke on her adam's apple. Her breasts were tiny hills, oddly shaped and padded along her chest. Her calves were pure muscle and her thighs paraded itself, an obvious come-on.
"I think I'm losing myself," she says. I smile. I've lost me, too.
"It's okay, self awareness is overrated anyways." I reassure her. Her lips mimic her eyes, agape and lost like a rogue recluse.
I closed my eyes and imagined the world melting away, streams and rivers and volcanoes melting and spilling into Antarctica, thus spilling off the earth like a broken water faucet. I imagined the car melting into rocks and sediments, the raindrops transforming into a huge waterfall. We'd be the only ones on earth. We'd be the only ones gravity adored.
"You know what?" I opened my eyes at the sound of her voice. I glanced at her, waiting. "My favorite color is red," she says. "Red for lips...blood...passion...anger...sex...r
I closed my eyes and imagined waterfalls and red lips.
I heard the car door open and it echoed and resonated as she exited. She stood there for a moment, the door ajar with stray raindrops flooding the passenger's seat. Goodbye, she'd say.
I'm going to watch the news tonight. I'm going to see her face plastered on the dusty TV screen, red lips and hate crime all in the same screen-shot. I'm going to cry storms. I will imagine her smiling red lips and her red nails. Whenever I drive, I will imagine the raindrops that were lost in the seat and I will imagine that it's her ghost crying.