Varla on the Mind

February 5, 2011

We’d been driving down the highway for a good hour, and we were just a mile or two from the Nevada border. A red/orange slash of cloud cover sliced against the ebbing blue sky. I navigated the car around the automotive husks littering the asphalt, and every now and then I’d glance at her, appraising her as intensely as I could without rolling off of the asphalt.

She was reclining in the partly-lowered passenger seat of my Mustang, cigarette propped between her white teeth. God or the Devil—damned if I knew which, damned if I cared—had poured her into a pair of snug black jeans, and I navigated her every mouthwatering curve with my eyes. She looked up at me, a lazily-sensual hedonist’s smile lighting up her face. An inch or two of her taut midriff peered from beneath her black T-shirt; and her restless, stilettoed right foot kept pulsing against the car floor. We finally hit a clear patch—only a few stray vehicle carcasses blemished the largely open highway ahead—and I was ready to open up the engine. Her sweet vermillion gash of a mouth drew back a deep drag of smoke as I stomped on the gas.

The tires tore into the pavement with a falsetto scream, and the car rocketed forward.

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