Her lips began to move on the paper: “Well, come on, dweeb ass, are you going to buy me or did you spend your last fifty cents on that shitty haircut?”
I fished out two quarters for the ThriftGo cashier and went into by 2004 PT Cruiser. “What kind of fag color is this,” she asked from the second-hand plastic bag. “Champagne,” I answered, unsure whether that was a legal classification.
I slid her into the tape deck while I cruised down Fletcher Road at thirty-seven miles per hour. Two tracks in, the music stopped and her voice echoed through the air conditioner:
“I have spent so long trapped on tape–you have given me the truest gift of mobility again.”
The seatbelt grew tight around my chest as the engine ran red-hot, my champagne car weaving through scores of tractor trailers as we made our way onto the interstate.
Keegan Shepherd 