Gripping the brakeshaft, idly thumbing the button, my phone buzzed.
Text. Anton needs a pickup at the bar. Date must be bad.
Why can’t I quit you? I think to myself, popping the brake. My hand slides up the gear, the head sliding into my palm as I jerk it into first. Screaming tires and red tail-light afterglow leave the only evidence of my presence.
Me, turning to my gay friend while raising an eyebrow suggestively as we pull up:
“So… is this where you get off, cowboy?”
Gripping the brakeshaft, idly thumbing the button, my phone buzzed.
Text. Anton needs a pickup at the bar. Date must be bad.
Why can’t I quit you? I think to myself, popping the brake. My hand slides up the gear, the head sliding into my palm as I jerk it into first. Screaming tires and red tail-light afterglow leave the only evidence of my presence.