My rental car blasts Kesha because, hello, I’m a woman on a solo trip, figuring out her shit—of course I’m listening to Kesha. There’s just one of her songs that I avoid. Because the last time I heard it, I did A Very Terrible Thing. I kissed Axel Bergman. Which isn’t the end of the world. I’m over it. It’s not like I fixate on it. Or daydream about it. Not about The Charades Kiss or Axel, who I haven’t seen since. Who I’m definitely not thinking about now, as I drive through his home state, that song filling the car before I can skip it, while a rainbow whooshes across the sky.
