Skimming along the infinite pavement, held together by yellow stitching, I feel myself start to hydroplane, though my wheels are spinning firmly on the ground.
There is a look-out at the beginning of a gravel road, and I pull in. The marshes are hazy and placid beneath the September morning clouds, and after stretches of cat tails, I see life reflecting on the Columbia.

I turn off the ignition and climb on top of my little Pontiac, cross-legged and shy in my $6.00 trench coat. The breeze is mild but I am shivering from the morning, the life, the love, the overdose of caffeine. I stuff my hands into the coat pockets and search around, nimble-fingered, for the last evidence of this week's addiction. My fingers glide along the wand of nicotina, bring it to my chapped lips, and then spark the black magic. I inhale and exhale just as quickly, letting tiny spirals of chemical cloud escape my lips and spread into the void between my feet and the sky. I tap the remaining amber ashes on my knee and let them smolder into my skin, gasping in memory of the boy.