Stories of road trips.
Sing along if you know the tune.
The amber lamps were the popcorn threaded in the Christmas tree, the traffic lights the ornaments. Opalescent, they shifted from color to color as we drove on. Maybe I was thinking too hard, maybe I was thinking too analytically. I never saw what she did, no mater how clearly she explained. It was like a message in alphabet soup; plain, exact, fleeting. I never understood what it was she tried to show me, all I saw was streetlights and traffic poles fading into the inky skies from the rear window. I never understood no matter how many states we slid through, gliding in our metal hawk across a strip of stagnant, craggy road, bottles of 40 and jumbo marshmallows from the convenience store half a gas tank away. She always thought of magic, of wonder, inebriated and giggling as she lazily panted over me, naked and fingers meshed under that ragged quilt in the back seat. At day, she was brazen, an explorer across these barren mountainous plains. She'd stop and enjoy me in the backseat, then drive until night when she'd drink more and more often and tell me secrets like some human Pandora's Box. She always wanted to cuddle up, breathe on the mirror and draw, giggle and kiss me with that cheap beer glazing her lips. She slept deep and dreamless, motionless. the vehicular tent that surrounded us would rumble and groan all night because she never turned it off, always kept the engine idle. It mustn't have needed something to do, old and decrepit as it was. Maybe it wanted to nestle with her too, my face between her small, blossomed breasts. I drank to avoid the stench of the beer, to sleep. It was my Nyquil. Marshmallows were the Tylenol for it all, popping pills like pixie stix to keep my symptoms from acting up. It was right after every pharmaceutical binge that she would drive off and ramble on about the streetlights, about that Christmas I never knew. She'd just chew more marshmallows and point to each one, giggling as she whispered "popcorn on a string".