She’s driving down twisting back roads somewhere east. The windows of the 1976 Plymouth Duster are rolled down. Her summer world smells like fresh cut grass.
The luminous linger of 8.30pm during daylight savings. The strength of the sun dips into warm rest.
The car is stolen.
Agnes drinks chocolate stout and often says ‘Yes’ when she really means ‘No.’ This isn’t a habit of weak will.
She worries so much about everyone else being ok. Everyone. One of the things that keeps her awake at night. The people.
And the cocaine…
Day continues to slowly forfeit to evening and the air starts to taste like desire. Even though it’s been thirteen months, Agnes’s nights are still flavoured with your lips.
It’s just one of the things she hates about you.
She pulls into a gas station and something about the attendant’s eyes on the back of her thighs, filling her tank in denim cut-offs, makes her sick and arouses her at the same time. She swore after you it would only be women.
Men are messy and cause nothing but problems.
Agnes has three tattoos that she never shows. You used to wonder why she only wanted to make love in the dark.
She has seven other reasons that you’ll never be aware of. The same way you don’t know about the cause of the cuts from her elbow to her palm.
Suddenly it occurs to you… your car is missing from the parking lot.