The drive down took forever, she thought. To him it was a good chance for time in the car, time moving, out of stillness. The music didn't hurt either, but neither was listening much to it. Several times he forgot to pick a new song and only the sound of the tires, the engine, the sparse traffic gave their drive a soundtrack. She wanted another song. He just wanted to keep moving. Something to kill the silence, she thought. So much noise in the bustle along, he noticed, never a moment of silence when we move so quickly.
They passed a sign promising plastic surgery without the scars. He laughed. She missed the sign, but heard him clear enough. No help that. She would have preferred some Coldplay or that other band that sounded a lot like Coldplay. She'd even settle for Styx at this point, anything to fill the dead air. He wondered what he'd look like with a scar on his chin.
He turned to stare out his window and began to hum. Still no help. She wanted to turn to her window, too, hum an indistinguishable tune, but she was stuck behind the wheel, their lives in her hands. With so much responsibility, so much angst, the least he could do was pick a song, a real song, a song that she knew and actually liked. She gripped the wheel to blanched knuckles hoping for a cow to smash into. He wished to himself that the drive would never end. Seventy miles to go and not a cow in sight.
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