All I hear is the boom boom boom of the speakers in time with the pound pound pounding of my fifteen year old heart.
Heat. Heat outside and inside. So much heat.
Windows rolled up, both my head and the car foggy from smoke.
Eyes closed. The taste of Boone’s Fuzzy Navel and saliva. My back pressing into the seat belt. Legs falling asleep. Head wedged at an impossible angle. Jeans still zipped. Shirt being worked upward by callused hands I barely know, by a smile I saw at a party, a smile I was surprised noticed me at all.
Speakers pound as if both disconnected and dictatorial. Trunk subwoofers overwhelm every object pervasively. Everything pounds along obediently, including my head.
He moves against me. Jeans against jeans. Hands fumbling, squeezing in time. Tongues wrestle.
Exciting and scary. Stupid and irresistible.
This is not the fantasy of a young poet, yearning for romantic meter and the magical seduction she’d pictured.
Not this smoky backseat of an old Mustang deaf with noise, no room but for the booming. Not the sounds of breath or sighs or even a moment for a compliment.
Yet it was not without caprice and my body was certainly not saying no.
I was not entirely saying yes either, but for now somewhere in between felt good. I’d give over to the intoxication of the night, of the heavy pulse in the thick air.
I never have to say no and he wouldn’t have heard me anyway. Eventually climbing off me. I tug my top down. Suddenly shy.
No words spoken, he ruffles his disheveled head and we climb into the front seat. As he drives me home, the windows down, wind rushing through the car, the sound pouring out, performing for the stars, he shouts mysterious words at me.
Words swallowed into sheer sound.
I shout, “WHAT?” but can’t even hear my own voice.
Home, the silence is disorienting.
I still move with the boom boom booming.
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