Nothing Between Us and the Evening
Sofia bought the convertible on a Thursday, which made Friday almost impossible to endure. At work she answered questions with a patience so elaborate that her friend Camille asked whether she had inherited money or fallen in love. Sofia said neither answer was entirely accurate. In the car park, a low blue roof waited under a tree, holding a small litter of yellow blossoms. She brushed them off with her sleeve before driving home.
She had wanted an impractical car for years. The sensible one had carried flat-pack furniture, groceries, and every reason to wait another season. Now the new keys felt extravagant against her palm. At six she drove to Julian's apartment and sent no message. He saw her from the window and leaned out, smiling before he knew what to say.
He came downstairs with two jackets and a ridiculous question about luggage capacity. She opened the trunk to show him. He put one small bag inside, then handed her a packet of sweets for the road. Sofia lowered the roof. The neighborhood's familiar buildings seemed to step back. She could hear a bicycle bell a street away and somebody laughing above a restaurant. Julian looked up as if the sky had been added specifically for him.
They took the coast road, not because it was quickest but because the evening stayed there longest. He selected music, rejected his first choice, and surrendered the controls when she looked over with one eyebrow raised. A bass line settled into the seats. His hand rested beside hers whenever she changed gear. The first time their fingers touched, both pretended to be occupied with the road. The second time, neither bothered.
At the lights she asked if he was cold. He said he was enjoying the possibility. She laughed and took the longer road out of town. The car was neither quiet nor especially discreet. Heads turned. For once Sofia enjoyed being seen without needing to explain what she had accomplished. Julian slid lower in his seat, comfortable and pleased, and let the wind untidy him.
They stopped above a small harbor after the last ferry had left. He spread one jacket on the low wall and put the other around her shoulders. Below them, boats moved against their ropes with little hollow knocks. They ate sweets and made increasingly inaccurate guesses about the distant lights. When he kissed her, there was enough time for her to smile before kissing him back. His hand was warm through the thin fabric at her waist. The music from the car reached them softly, with the empty seats between each beat.
Later they drove inland where the buildings thinned and the air smelled of cut fields. Julian kept a hand open on the center console. Sofia laid hers in it on the long straight stretches. They spoke in fragments, letting unfinished thoughts travel a little way before picking them up again. Neither asked what time they would return. At a roadside café still serving, they bought coffee they did not particularly want just to sit outside together.
The roof stayed down all the way home. At his door, Julian asked whether she had plans for Saturday. Sofia looked at the car, the last few blossoms caught where the windshield met the hood, and the jacket he was still wearing inside out. She said she had some very good possibilities. He bent to kiss her again. Behind them the engine ticked as it cooled, in no hurry to become quiet.
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