It always started with her driving. A sleek sedan; funky VW bus; purring sports car.
Fields undulating against endless blue horizons. Arbors of flame red maples or red-streaked skyscraper windows. Cold velvet night with wheeling starscapes.
Bopping to music; beating out rhythm on the steering column. Crooning and crying.
Then, at a stoplight, a railroad crossing, a fork in the road, she would glance at the passenger’s seat.
A takeout box from a “fried flamingo” joint?
Her years dead great-grandmother consulting a map?
A dog asking for her to open the window so he could stick his head out?
Then, the really weird thing would hit her. She didn’t actually know how to drive.
carpooling for sunday writing prompt: driving
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