We're stopped at a stoplight before getting on the highway and I turn around in my seat so he could zip me up. I'm sweating kind of and I'm out of breath and trying to suck it in.
We're listening to this song, getting onto the highway now. We're going pretty fast because we're late. Like really late. And it's completely my fault and I'm careless and I didn't check what time the dry cleaners closed on Saturday and I don't plan ahead and we both know that and there's nothing anyone can do about it now. But somehow, for some reason, he's not mad, or at least he's not acting like it. He's just driving along, looking over to smile at me. We're going to be late to his best friend's older brother's wedding but somehow, for some reason, he's talking about how my 4 sizes-too-small dress from 4 years ago that I sprinted from his still-running car up my mom's driveway in my new heels to grab from my old closet as fast as I could is perfect and you look so good you should have picked this one to begin with.
