Some of our best conversations have taken place in the front seat of a car while we wind through back roads after midnight. Too bored to stay home and too poor to go out, we just drive. Taking curves at top speed, racketing through the dark with the music up and wind buffeting our hair until we need help later to fix the knots . . . I am happiest here.
Intentionally getting lost with her has become a favorite pastime for years. If we have even a glancing knowledge of the area, we can always find our way back without fail. No maps, no GPS—we rely on intuition and dumb luck. And if we fuck it up, we turn around and find what looks familiar.
I play with her hair as she keeps one hand on my leg. I tickle her at stop lights and we sing songs that make us gasp from giggling.
So we drive on and on, and once the singing has petered out (me with my constant harmonizing, her with her B-52s and Muppet-inspired shrieks) the talking starts. Everything is covered eventually. We have pored over our pasts, our families, our greatest fears, our triumphs. Here is where we talk about our future and what we want. An easy thing to do with infinite miles stretching out before us. We spent our sixth anniversary in the front seat of a car, trying once more to land somewhere after fleeing a storm. We have laughed and wept here, fought and loved. We have warred and reconciled; confessed and made grand declarations.
And every time I look over, catching her face in the brief gleam of someone else’s headlights, I realize just how great it really is. Because there are few things better than tearing through the black skies and whispering back and forth, “just a little further.”