writers rituals

     

            She was not accustomed to driving in commuter traffic which made her a menace. While everyone else was rolling on autopilot, she had a death grip on the wheel and was riding the brake, hanging back from the car in front of her. Being stoned did not help the situation. It was cold and the car's heater was mocking her, blowing cold air in her face, or was that the AC? The controls made no sense. 

He was slouched down in the passenger seat, ankle crossed over a knee, foot keeping time with the music from the cassette player, oblivious of her jitters.  

Traffic slowed to a crawl then stopped, and she started groping in the depths of her bag.

“What are you looking for?”

“Lip gloss. My lips are chapped.”

“C’mere. He put his hand around the back of her neck, pulled her toward him like he was adjusting a lampshade, and planted a firm kiss on her mouth. 

“There. You got the last of it.”

His mouth, and now hers, were slicked with something faintly greasy and medicinal.

She wrinkled her nose. “Gee. Thanks, I guess.”

 The realization that he had kissed her dawned on both of them at the same time. Was he smug behind those shades?

  “Carmex. Don’t smell great but it works.” 

She was still processing the self-assured warmth of his hand on her neck and the pressure of his mouth on hers and had to look out the side window to hide a smile. 

“That was…”

“Yeah, dumb.” 

“No. You just caught me by surprise.”

“Zat right?” He turned and looked at the traffic behind them, then ahead as the tail lights flickered red, traffic still ground to a halt. He reached over, put the car in park, and kissed her again, this time on full send, inviting the response she returned until the driver behind them leaned on the horn and someone yelled, “Get a room!”

He put the car back in gear and flipped the honker a friendly bird. “Now, there’s a thought.”