“Let’s drive,” I say to The Boy, my boy, when he asks if I want dinner delivered or picked up. We ride his elevator to the garage, and I’m tempted to jump in the little lift. We’re out before I do, and I play police woman in my platforms and fox-trimmed coat, directing The Boy out of his dark, deep driveway, hopping into his Porsche as it warms on the empty street. As he grabs his Carrera’s stick shift, sliding gears in and out, my hand shifts to his pants, resting where each leg grinds into the other.
I pet him as softly as his thumb rubs against the sphere of his stick shift, as the black air from the ocean breaths on the city lights lining the coast. I watch him drive, feeling each time he pumps his feet in a half-second dance to switch gears. He swings wide through a curve on a cliff, while my hand hugs the circle of his thigh.
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