Were this a scene from a Tarantino movie she'd be in an early 70s muscle car with the windows down. Here she is, motoring through the Arizona desert with the air conditioning on high, the road noise barely audible in her rented Honda Accord sedan. It's a silvery blue color, not the dirty green of the missing Tarantino Charger with the racing stripe. She had tried driving with the windows down for a few minutes, but was just too damned hot and dusty. Plus the baby is asleep in the car seat in the back, and she wants the baby to be comfortable. She fumbles restlessly with the radio tuner buttons on the steering wheel, trying to find something that sounds wild and rockin', something Tarantino. She wants one of those old radios with the row of push buttons for tuning, the ones that go "clunk" when you push them. She isn't old enough to ever have seen one of those radios, but she has seen several Tarantino movies. In the end she finds a light jazz station that's soothing and might help the baby sleep a little longer. She imagines a cigarette hanging limply from the corner of her lips. She's never been a smoker, but here she is, motoring through the Arizona desert, running from the law, shotgun in the seat beside her, heading west to find and kill the man who wronged her. None of that is true, of course. She's going to see her mother in San Bernardino. No shotgun. No vendetta. Just air conditioning and light jazz and too many Tarantino movies.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
