We got on the A23. Then off it. Then off everything. South. The houses thinning to trees. Trees to green going up either side. Somewhere around the M23 the noise dropped out of the morning and stayed out.
She fiddled with the radio. Three different stations had her on it before she gave up and put on a CD. Joni Mitchell.
"Oh good," I said. "Cheerful."
"Shut up."
She had her window cracked, her hand out in the air doing the thing she does, the flat palm riding the wind, and the red of her hair went mad across her face and she did not tie it back.
I had to look at the road.
I looked back.
She had the grin going against the headrest, eyes shut. She knew.
After a while she leaned across the centre console, put her head on my shoulder, and her hand came off the gearstick and went onto the inside of my thigh. High. The warm of her palm through the worn denim. She did not ask. She put it there.
