It’s the middle of the week and we’re on the N2, home bound. You’ve got the wheel, one hand steering and the other resting on the gear stick. First, third, fifth. You can do that with a close ratio gearbox, you know, but not other cars. Nah-uh, you’d stall before you even got your foot off the damn clutch.
I’ve got the passenger seat stretched back like a lounger, one foot on the dashboard and the other out the window, jiggling the side view mirror with my big toe. The chain mom called tacky does jingly jangly hoola-hoops around my ankle, shooting a constellation of lights at my chest.
You’re playing the album you just recorded, steering with your bony knees as you strum the air to your favourite parts. The guitar, your mistress, sitting upright all strapped in and shit on the back seat. Strum, flick, pick. I never understood that impulse, your urgency to create. But it’s what I love about you. That’s what makes you mine, Baby.