There's the percussive sound of heavy rain on the roof and the windows. The rubber-meets-glass sound of windshield wipers while we're watching them, holding hands while the windows get foggy. She breathes near my ear, warm, humid. Her head, resting on my shoulder. She smells like lavender and tea leaves, like a new book. But then again, we're young, we're stupid thirsty blank pages, so it makes a little sense. 

The dashboard is cracked and distorted from too many summers of baking in the sun. The black vinyl is peeling away from the door liners, the seats are patched with duct tape, there's rust on the metalwork. The radio is an original analog monster, push button presets ready to jar the needle across the unevenly illuminated dial. 

"I love you," she says. "I love you more than anything or anyone on this earth," as she stares at the wiper blades... tock tock, screep. Tock tock, screep.

I don't move. I don't respond. I don't even breathe.
"But I can't wait any longer for you," she pauses, swallows. I hear her tongue touch her lips.

"I'm getting married."

Tock tock, screep. Tock tock, screep.

I blink. twice. without a word, I take my hand from hers. I want to throw up and die, choking on it. I want to curl up into a ball and vanish, or put my fist through all the brittle plastic and dirty glass and pockmarked metal, so I can feel the bones breaking and the skin tearing away. I want to kiss her on the mouth, I want to fuck her again, I want to feel her sweaty hands raking their way across my back, drawing blood, just one last time. It's fucked up, so I close my eyes, and I focus:

Tock tock, screep. Tock tock, screep.

"I hope you understand," she says, and I don't. But then again, we're young. we're stupid thirsty blank pages, so it makes a little sense.