We had to get to New Orleans. My parents had no idea. They never did.
Mike had on both pairs of sunglasses. Because one is never enough. And there I sat, watching him, watching the wind tousle his glorious hair.
We’ll make it. We’ll tie the doors together so they don’t open on the highway. Those are the words you utter before you turn up David Bowie.
And then I noticed. Beads hanging from the side mirror. Pictures of other women.
Take your own damn trip to New Orleans!
Baby, baby. You’re my foxy girl. Come on. Gimme some sugar.
* Author’s note: This is part of the Friday Fictioneer’s Writing Challenge.