It’s all coming back: the ponderosa and hairpins, the noon light and blue sky, Allison sitting in the front seat, singing. The stereo blares out old songs that were old when we were in college, and over it all she sings how she sings: badly and with abandon. Her key’s awry, her pitch is awkward, her lyrics are mispronounced. Awful is the only way Allison knows how to sing. But her face is unapologetic—her only audience is me, and she’s told me she won’t sing out loud in front of anyone else.
We used to do this before, in college, just the two of us: hitting some road or other when restlessness and time got the better of us. Improvised vacations just to get the hell out of hell, out of Dodge, out of life, out of mind.
