After a while, the back seat itches my ass. A conversation over hot green M&M’s and the receipt which I might be able to tear into a dust if I keep going. There's room in the middle for one more, but not in this conversation. "Scoot," you might say, folding into sticky leather. We all laugh at the careless patriotism of graphite-coated sticks of gum and the residual glue from peeled duct tape frosted with empty bags of Dunkin'. Kick at the hunch in the front seat because the party is in the back. Drive faster. Are you on Instagram. The sun strobe makes phones stupid dark and I'm nauseous. Smiling and so bright I can't open my eyes.
