Riding

They were riding in his 1959 Ford Fairlane. It was seafoam green outside, turquoise and white inside. He had polished the car that afternoon in his usual one-finger fashion. It was wide open: the white rag top was up, but the side windows were all rolled down, the back window unzipped and the boot cover stretched and snapped down. The car was long and wide, flowing sleek and bright past the dark trees lining the road, the road white in the full moonlight. She was next to him, close, her left arm around his shoulders, her right hand on his chest, her short blond hair fluttering against his face and neck. She looked at his face, smiling, her upper lip opening wide, flashing her teeth. Leaning into him, she kissed his neck, lips just brushing the skin, then his ear, tongue working wet and soft, while she ran her right hand over his chest, slowly, the hand going lower and lower as the Fairlane came around a long, slow curve in the road, no other cars in sight, the wind flowing swift, around and through them, the car floating along in the white moonlight.