And it's one of those moments, when she's telling you about her old house in college with the 3 a.m. pancakes and the book she wrote about it. She's sitting next to you looking around distracted while telling you about the drunk man with a pig's tongue in his mouth and it's crazy and gross but you wanna hear the rest of it, and you look at her right in the face hoping she'll look at you distracted while she sips her cappuccino machiatto.
And you wish she'd finish so you can head back up the mountain and across the forests and the highways and the rivers and the broken trees, but instead she'll finish and roll a cigarette she won't be allowed to smoke in the car so she'll smoke out in the cold and the wind that freezes your ears but only makes her shiver a bit, tough.
And you wish she'd continue looking around distracted while she tells you the story about the wild horses in that village with the weird name, but instead you just look at her pout her lips and blow smoke smoothly, wishing one day she'll leave you covered in red lipstick stains too, and now you're both wondering what bees do in winter before crossing the street to head home because there's laundry to be picked up.
And then you're cruising through unknown streets pissing of all the other drivers behind you, but you just wanna enjoy a few more seconds of her and her voice and her crazy beautiful eyes and tell her more of those ghost stories you loved when you were a kid., but then you're just parking the car and looking at her picking up her stuff and saying goodbye and you wish this goddamn armrest wasn't in the way so you could reach over and try catch a whiff of her hair, but instead she's opening the door and picking up her stuff and saying see you soon, but you don't know, who knows.
And it's just that.
