Windows Down

The road is nearly empty, the sky turning gold as you lean back and let the warm air rush through the car. The windows are down, music low, and the afternoon smells impossibly fresh like lime, orange peel, and green pear from the fruit you picked up at the last stop. You pass a stand of balsam fir and wild greenery just as the first drops of rain hit the windshield, leaving that cool, electric scent of ozone in the air. By the time the rain passes, everything outside looks sharper, greener, more alive. You catch a soft trace of orange flower and cyclamen somewhere beyond the roadside, then turn the music up and keep driving.

Neither of you have said where you’re going. Maybe that’s why the silence feels so easy. The road curves through the trees, shadows stretching across the pavement, and the clean air gives way to something warmer inside the car like velvet woods, patchouli, oakmoss, and a touch of amber settling beneath the coolness, softened by the clean warmth of musk. You glance over. They’re looking at you instead of the road ahead. Neither of you speak. The next turn is coming and you know exactly where it leads…