We took a die with us into the car
and threw it at junctions. Evens we’d
turn left, odds right. And you were cracking open
beers all the time, tossing the empty cans in the back seat
and blowing beer-scented kisses at me,
which made me laugh and open the window.
At one point we lost the die, which proved problematic
for our journey. We stopped in a field somewhere,
- the car actually huffing like a riding-school pony - and
smoked a few cigarettes, deciding what to do.
You had a coin in your pocket, and tossed it at roundabouts.
Several times we struck a dead-end and I had to reverse up
narrow country lanes, making up stories about surreptitious
Aston-Martins backing out of blind driveways, and bills incurred.
I had to tell you a couple of times that the gear stick is not
where we hold hands, and that I’m an easily distracted driver.
It was an afternoon of nothing apart from lifted eyebrows at
railway crossings, laying bets on which direction the train
would come from, and wiping grass off our shoes before we got in the car.
We learnt about limited time, about how the summer ends a little bit more,
every day, while we’re still struggling to remember how to get back home.
We got back, eventually, but the car huffed its last a couple of miles
from my house and we walked it back,
giving the accidental thumbs-up at passing motorists and falling
over each other while our shadows lengthened in the sun.