But there is a girl who doesn't want life to pass her by so she looks to the open road, taking her shiny car on the freeway running it 80-90-100 miles per hour to feel anything, a cheap thrill, something.
She thinks of her literature professor too, the married one, with the boyish face, almond shaped eyes, his southern accent that reminds her of Texas, and only dreams of the heavy things they could do in the dark that leave one breathless, warm.
After class, she might lay on the sofa and let her Pug stretch out by her hip while his paws claw at her, and he licks the salt on her hand to remind her she’s breathing, alive.
She thinks of all the things she can’t release like the fact that her mother’s withering away in a cold room with too many needles and less time.
And in that moment, she wanted to be a child again, the one who looked for rainbows, counted blue cars and plump cows in green fields through a cool window. The child who didn’t see the lightning as a force, but the magic and the light surrounding the sky.