Up in a Cadillac. Back down in a Volvo. I sneak a peek at her Luscious Jackson CD collection, and have an instantaneous daydream. Flashback, the Bangles on UHF in 1984. I am a bad boy’s foot away from the TV set. Cross legged & pop brunette hypnotized. Am I witnessing those long awaited bunting baby steps towards my very own puberty? I can feel a change hanging around. Giving me its dizzy breakneck nods Happily tucking me in at random. Whether I like it, or not. Yes, I thought, yes… I will walk like an Egyptian for you my sweet Miss Cleo, but for now, Count the barren hills rolling past. While I recline & pray for the cooling waves of Santa Barbara. Those redolent grapes of her bosom to start pouring through my drunk wet mouth, crashing through with harsh language. Intolerably silent fingers inching forwards. Eye-balling that leg, that pouty fucking mouth. Those breasts rocking up, and out, soft heaving. Dancing to the curving smooth asphalt heat I know is lurking below us. An inorganic voyeur to her bounty of sex appeal. While my defense mechanism is a narcoleptic's daily excuse. "Stop it." I whisper. "Just stop." Please, my head… "What?" She says. "Oh look, there’s been an accident, look at that?" She motions with a toss of her neck, head, hair. "You were asleep and mumbling." She states, flirting & mostly curious. "Sorry", I reply, doing my best at avoiding her eyes. An awkward silence accentuates the moment. "You don't remember me, do you?" She asks. Giggling nervously at my lost and panic-stricken gaze. "I answered your ad in the Pennysaver… Silly?" "The one that said, “"you fly, and I’ll buy!?"" "For the wine tasting festival?" "You said that your license was suspended, and your vehicle impounded?" “You really don't remember me, do you?" “You’re not some weirdo, or anything, are you?" I can tell that she’s a bit put off that a man Could forget her that quickly and efficiently Without even having met her parents, or sleeping with her. “Maybe, you need to see a specialist?" “Is there some kind of medicine you could take?" But it’s too late. She is fading out again fast. I stare off, regretfully, seduced by the violence of the collision. Compelled, by the flickering flashes of reds, and blues chasing yellows. Trying to find some eye contact. Something remote and godless About our hands and the faces. Victims of momentum.