Run, run, run

By accident I met a girl who had a voice tinged with both sadness and sunshine. She had that kind of dry wit that you had to stop and think for a moment before it hit you, and she could drink me under the table when it came to strong coffee. I had been on a bad first date and she had been my rescue blues, pulling me aside and pointing out what was obvious. We had agreed at the absurdity of the situation, and the boy, and became fast friends.

We spent most of our new friendship in one of our cars. She came from a rich area of town, from historically inherited wealth, and was deeply embarrassed by it. She drove a beat up hatchback, the same model and year as mine, but hers was white, mine red. We played music loudly, especially this album. I never met her family, or any of her other friends, she seemed to enjoy the escape from her life that I provided. She was always a little out of breath, always a little unfurled, as if she was always on the run.

One day she stopped calling. One day she stopped taking my calls. She just disappeared into the ether as quickly as she had appeared. I always picture her in that beat up car with the peeling white paint, driving just over the speed limit, cross-country running far away.

Run, Run, Run :: Concrete Blonde

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