Cumulonimbus

Shadows on my face cast long under the white lights of the gas station. We're stopped on a dark strip of country road and the dust is all kicked up behind us and far ahead it's a stoplight or tail lights, either way I feel almost spooked swallowing thick summer air. This gas station is the kind without attendants where you just pay at the pump, with some vending machines and an air pump under the lamp post. You and me don't have any curfew because it's June, and in June we can crawl into bed together under a gauzy sheet and my mom won't say anything and your parents are never in town to say anything either. I lean against the door, turn my back on you in the passenger seat, turn my back on your hand which hadn't touched my wrists in four years and my legs never. I want you to be looking out your window at some trees, but I can feel your eyes on my back turned, and so I crack the car door open but just smile. I do that sometimes; I don't have words only smiles, and it's so strange to me even after all night that when you open your mouth it's for me.