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.