The memory is sudden, dark, and humid. The night air is cold on sweaty skin, and there's not a lot of room in the backseat of the car. A buckle or something digs into your thigh, but you're not paying attention because Carly Mason is all sweet hot slick skin under you. She keeps giggling at random moments, and it's extremely distracting. You'd like it better if she said your name, but she never does. The memory of the actual sex is vague; sort of filled in with the gray of time and the assenting knowledge that it was awkward but oh, so much fun--and then it's over. The memory skips, like a bad record, and both of you are stretched out on the seat in the most awkward position ever, but you don't want to move. She smells like fruit gum and sweat. It's nice.
Then, she talks. "This is your dad's car, huh?"
You liked it better when it was quiet. She has a squeaky voice. "Yes."
"It's nice. Black and shiny. When I first saw it I thought maybe it was one of them cars they drive dead people in, you know?"
"A hearse."
"Heard what?"
"A hearse."
"You heard what?"
She gets a real high pitch on that one, so you just shake your head. "Nevermind." You pull away from her, somehow disappointed, and look around for your clothes. You think, I bet when I'm older, I'll think this is funny as hell. She's still talking, but the memory is fading, until it's just a prickle of cold on your bare skin--and then nothing.