Drive

Fumbling, the tight argument peters out.
See the Blackpool lights in the puddles as we crash through Damocles' daggers of drizzle in the way of my eyes.
She talks of pulling the top down: "Getting wet ‘til we’re drenched!" The insanity makes us wretch with giggles that cease, when the ice shards pierce our tiny skulls and the leather of the seats.
See, I can drive, when she lets me, but we’re still now and the roof’s back. So we dry the seats with our clothes and she won’t let me drive for a while, though not for too long – we must return the car in time.