My friends, things are going well. I’m presently putting in many more hours on this full time student gig than I think I ever did as an employee, and that’s saying something. But—-with the exception of the small nagging worry that I’ll never work again and we’ll starve under a bridge while trying to live off of our love, dumpster scraps, and the generosity of strangers—-I am loving it. I am happy.

And yet, this picture. Wow. I saw it and was transported instantly into a detailed vision that most shrinks would call an escape fantasy:

We have somehow acquired, borrowed, or rented a convertible—a big old one I think. Early ’60s Impala, something like that. Red. We have thrown our middle fingers up to the world, blown off our obligations, haphazardly packed a bag of essentials, and set out just before dawn for someplace warm and dry - Texas or southern California perhaps? Mexico? It’s hard to tell, but I know it’s west of here. I drive the first stretch, with D asleep by my side, his unconscious hand lingering on my knee. I want him to rest well. I leave the radio off. The silence and the smell of fog lifting clear my mind; the accelerator rumbles under my bare foot; the gypsy blood in my heart tells me to press down harder. I map out a route in my head—it’s not the straight shot that it could be, but we’re not on a schedule and I’m bored with seeing the interstate. Besides, I’d rather cut south right away… we’re both tired of being cold.

After awhile, we stop for black coffee at a no-name greasy spoon along the road. As we open the door, the smell encourages us to grab a seat and add some hash-browns and bacon to our coffee order. The food is good and warm and the stools at the counter are filled with old men telling worn out stories, who are only too happy for a fresh audience. Their wives are gathered at a booth in the corner; they eye my cleavage disapprovingly and whisper to one another. The waitress shakes her head. Smiles. Keeps the coffee coming. We order seconds of bacon just to have a reason to sit and listen a little longer.

Once our bellies are full, we head back to the car and D takes the wheel. I climb in beside him, prop my feet up on the dash, crank up the radio, let the wind style my hair, and chain smoke like only someone who is driving west in a convertible on a whim can chain smoke. Eventually, the road noise encourages me to doze just a little. It’s restful, but I’m still aware of the sun on my face, the scratchy sounds of the radio, the smell of asphalt and warm grass blowing in, D’s fingers intertwined with my own, and the miles disappearing behind us. I feel his hand loosen from mine and gently slip up my thigh. My legs part slightly, slowly, as though they’re trying not to stir me from my sleep. I feel the breeze tickle against the growing dampness in my panties…

All of this first thing in the morning from just a picture. Maybe we do need to get away… that cancelled trip from earlier this fall must be weighing on me. As such, Part II of this story may be forthcoming in a few days if I make enough progress as a good little student.

Update: You can find Part II here. 

(via gentlekama)