She was alone; no one else in the car. She was young –no more than eighteen. Had been crying he could see – the mascara a purplish moat around her brown eyes. He noticed her hands were at the proverbial ten and two but they were shaking. He knew they were both up against a regret that would delineate so much, define almost everything hence and remind them that this brief fury is inexcusably tenuous.
Why not? Twas my birthday yesterday and I feel like a little auto-fellatio.
Sue me.
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