I want to tell her the crazy shit inside my head—I want to tell her that I want to stare at the cheesy way the sun hits her hair in the passenger seat until I can’t see anymore. I want to listen to her moan and close her eyes when she takes a bite of a taco—that I swear tastes like cardboard but she loves—until I can’t hear anymore. I want to tease her about the spot just below her knee—that she always misses when she shaves her legs—until I lose my voice.
