Let me take you home.

Relief in driving alone is relief in being in one’s own capsule, independent of an audience. Reenact a movie scene if you will. Cry your eyes out due to indelible frustrations. Pretend that life is GranTurismo without being too much of a living hazard to others. Change your clothes when nobody is looking. Think dangerous thoughts nobody will hear.

Or pretend you are a French lady by the name of Cecil, heartbroken over a man in the summer of ’85.

He was the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, the most beautiful boy I’ve ever met.

Tough luck, Cecil.

Adapt a hilariously bad French accent. Give long, melancholic, meaningful stares out the window as you’re driving, like one of those corny-as-fuck karaoke videos. Rock it like you’re in the 80s. Go on, it’s worth it.

Pinky promise.

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