Bars of light work their way over your car as you pass under the streetlamps that reach out above the smooth road. The world outside is black, lit by blinking neon signs, humming lights with a greenish tint to them. It looks like a movie set is passing by your window. It's late. The clock in your dash says it's nearly one AM. But you don't feel tired. Your eyes are wide, the whites bright against your dark skin. Your hands shake. You feel like a live wire. A dangerous energy buzzes just below the surface and your heart throws itself against your ribs over and over. Your skin is covered in a slick film of sweat, and your gray t-shirt sticks to your back. You wonder if this is what it feels like to be high on some manner of drug as you make a left turn toward home.
You can still feel where her lips met yours, where her fingers pressed into your skin. The peppermint scent of her shampoo is still in the air. She didn't shave – anything. That was nice. She had smelled fresh and cool, but her skin felt like it was on fire. You remember the way she had pushed you onto the bed with a wicked grin on her face and the pattern her hands made as they moved along your body. She had laughed. There was no denying that it had felt good, all of it. You had forgotten what it felt like. It was so different from what you had grown used to.
The sheer excitement of the moment left you high and dry, however. Now that it is over and you hit the last light before home, you grow increasingly anxious. You nervously flatten your hair with one hand. Your stomach feels queasy and you feel terrible. You have passed the point of no return – you had entertained the thought of doing so for a while now, but hadn't done anything besides flirt relentlessly with the idea. Tonight, however, things changed and now there was nothing to be done about it. You wonder if he'll know. Will he be able to tell from the trill of your laugh or the way your eyes dart from his face? Or will he find a long, brown hair somewhere? You decide the whole thing was a mistake, though you will forget that the next time the girl brushes up close to you.
Though you're only a block from home, you pull the car over, breaking abruptly from the lines of the street. A car behind you honks noisily as you stagger from your still running car. You vomit violently into the grass that's been growing yellow. Sharp blades pricks your palms and cracks under your weight. You look at the chunky puddle of vomit in the grass and wipe your mouth with your sleeve. The night air is cool and runs its fingers through your hair. You breathe in the smell of dying grass.