I often remember driving in his car. The speed and the teenaged love intoxicated me. A nylon seat belt created an embrace across my heart, connecting me to the steel of the car. My body heated, clinging to the seat in acceleration, then jerking with each intentional shift. I watched his hands which were usually divided between the steering wheel and the shifter. I watched his legs covered in faded Levi jeans marching with the rhythm of the clutch and gas. It was a Nissan Sentra.
There wasn’t a place I didn’t want to go in that car. Freedom. To Blockbuster we went, for the latest in VHS entertainment. We watched movies sitting close with our innocent flesh radiating through clothes purchased for us by our mothers. At my house we had company - siblings and parents depending on the movie choice and time of night. At his house we watched in a private basement. I remember there, being secluded with just the light of the tv and our young love, we often became distracted during movies.
The moment his car approached, all else disappeared. My parents' distrust for me vanished. The feeling of being trapped in servitude melted. I became a different, better person. Sometimes we took the kids - my siblings and cousins - out on adventures. Sometimes we sat at a small airport and watched planes. We said things like “I love you” and “forever.”
The highway at night was his personal race track. These were my early moments of happy adrenaline. They tasted like skittles, smelled like Vanillaroma trees and felt like shots of liquor in my belly. I had a feeling that I belonged. He made me feel like I could be someone. I wonder what he was driving on the highway to heaven. He always did have a fast car.