I found myself driving past Mrs. McBride’s house. I half expected to see Kenny’s Nova parked in the driveway. I thought about stopping but the house was dark. What could I say anyway? I couldn’t tell Daisy that I was obsessing over her dead son. I couldn’t tell her that I still remembered the way his lips would go soft and hungry when he kissed me. Nor could I tell her that I wanted to feel his hand on my thigh, or his body pressed against me, or more of him inside of me. This was silly, and I knew it was silly. I turned to go home. The night remained black. The country roads were unlit. The oncoming headlights felt like eyes boring through me, seeing inside of me and exposing my obsession. I wanted the memories of Kenny to go away, and yet I held on to them, nursing them, replaying them over and over in my head. We were in a house, in a car, under a tree, touching, laughing, kissing, exploring. And stopping. A faint glittering in the distance caught my eye. It wasn’t a car. It was. Soon the mellow sounds of "Blue Train" were playing from the speakers as the wind whipped through their hair. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows behind the car as they sped sunward. The clouds were starting to build in front of them, presaging rough weather ahead. Monique's fingers tapped on her door, keeping time with the jazzy rhythms.Monique looked at Cliff's hands on the steering wheel as he drove. His fingers were long and slender. He had artist's hands. She supposed it was possible for a man with short, stubby fingers to be an artist, but she had never yet seen one who was. They were usually ditchdiggers, bricklayers, men who labored with their hands. Strange how the men whose hands were best designed for creating art were usually those who did.The drive wasn't all that long, only about an hour and a half. They went from the highway to a side road and from the side road to a dirt road that wound around the side of a mountain and down to the shore of a small lake. Monique.
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