It takes all of sixty seconds.
I park my car next to yours in my driveway, and turn off the music. Silence reigns for a moment when I shut off the engine. Then a rush of sound and scent as I grab my briefcase, and open the car door. The summer sounds – a whirring maelstrom of cicadas, chirping birds and wind rushing through the branches of the oaks. The ticking sound from your SUV’s cooling engine lets me know you arrived only moments before me. As I pass your car, I glance inside at the contents. CDs, scrunchies. Sunglasses and a compact umbrella. I take in everything, feel the glancing familiarity that comes with knowing one has seen something before. It isn’t the clarity that comes with daily routine. I’ve only been in your car a few times – and whenever I’m in it, we’re usually busy fucking each other’s brains out.