Backseat Kissers

The backseat of a car is where some things become real. You know it’s stupid—the geometry doesn’t work, nothing good comes of it, you know how this ends. You go anyway. All hands and breath and someone’s jacket that still smells like them. It’s a specific texture of romance that sticks with you longer than things that were supposed to matter more. Years later you’ll remember the exact pressure of someone’s mouth in the dark before you remember their name.