In the Car

You're exhilarated.
Every union has their Days, those Times when every shared experience screams perfection, and it's a scream so loud that you have no choice but to assume the floor and become its servant. She is your King.
This is one of those times. Together, in the car. This is It.
You watch her as she drives; sometimes you know the route, sometimes you don't. It makes no difference--every road, whether previously taken or never before experienced, is new/different/better when traveled together.
You can see her reflection in the window; her laughter echos throughout the car, moving in tandem with the radio--a perfect example of when life seems scripted.
You feel her touch. Her fingers? Mouth? You'll accept anything--it's Her.
And you begin to wonder what would happen if this arrangement were to falter, to exit from your realm of what's Normal.
You wonder--you remove yourself from the exhilaration that is this Present.
Try not to make a habit of this. Stay where you are.
Later you will remember the roads you traveled, the destinations reached; you'll remember the smell of her car (what a mess), the way she drove (confident), the way she talked the whole way there. Or didn't. It never made any difference--in each scenario, you were Both There.
And you'll remember the way she sang, the way she used her seat as a dance floor.
You'll remember the way she looked at you, like you would always travel these roads Together.
And then you'll smile.