He drives through the cobalt night, the stars glaring down as they fly across the sky, the glow from his dashboard a pale mimic. A mix of Gregorian chanting, synth beats and sexy French singing bleed pink from his speakers. He parks on a dark mountain, hiding you both, but the repeating music is an easy echo for the cops to find if they cared to, but they don’t. You get out to look at the lights of the homes and the towns flowing away from you, reflecting the sky above, constellations of lives being lived. You start to dance as he gets out too. Watching. Waiting. You know why he drove here. You know why they all drive you here.
Melissa Llanes Brownlee (she/her), a native Hawaiian writer, living in Japan, has fiction in The Citron Review, Waxwing, Milk Candy Review, Claw & Blossom, Bending Genres, Micro Podcast, (mac)ro(mic), Complete Sentence, The Daily Drunk and elsewhere. She was selected for Best Small Fictions 2021. She tweets @lumchanmfa and talks story at www.melissallanesbrownlee.com.
image: MM Kaufman