Rust on the Vinyl, Heat in the Veins

The sun hangs low over the water, a heavy coin of gold that buys us another hour. I lean against the cream-colored flank of this car, an artifact from a simpler century where rust meant character and leather seats smelled of old secrets rather than new plastic. My floral bikini is too bright for such nostalgia, but then again, so am I in his eyes.

The sea breeze tries to cool me, but it only fans the fire he lit just moments ago with that lingering glance across the dashboard. It's a strange alchemy we've struck—two modern ghosts haunting a vintage machine while waiting for something real to happen on this coastline. He talks of cities and deadlines, of things buried in concrete, but here I feel nothing but skin against salt air.

I touch my hair, letting it fall like a curtain between the world and us. There is no clock ticking inside these lines he draws around me with his gaze; time has become fluid again, pooling around our feet as surely as the tide pulls back from the sand.

Editor: Antique Box