I called her
At three am.
I asked her if
She was awake.
She lied and said
That she was.
I had woken her up.
"Take me somewhere,"
I asked her.
She had a car.
I didn't.
I didn't think
She would actually
Come because she
Hated mornings.
We were in college
Then, and I met her
In the parking lot.
She held a cup of
Coffee and was
Dressed in a hoodie
And sweatpants.
In the darkness,
I couldn't see
Her eyes.
I thought she was
Still asleep.
Was I ever wrong.
She opened the door
Of her car and
Slid in, lithe as
A cat.
I had never ridden
With her, so the
Moment I climbed
In the car was
The moment I learned
Something unusual
About her:
This girl I knew,
Or thought I did,
Drove a stick shift.
She was the only
Girl I knew who
Could drive a stick shift.
"Are you sure that you're
Awake enough to drive?"
I asked her.
She turned to me,
And, now, I could see
Her eyes in the light
Of the dash display.
I had never seen her,
This shy academic,
Look that wild.
She was alive,
More alive than
I had ever seen
Anyone.
She drove like
She had been born to,
Like it was her one purpose,
The one thing for which
She lived.
The empty three am interstate.
The space between three and four
Thousand rpms.
Incredibly loud music.
I could see the appeal.
This was life.
This was living.
We came back to reality,
Back to school,
As the dawn broke.
"Thank you," I told her,
But I didn't know what for.
I couldn't make a list of what
She had given me that
I was grateful for.
I didn't know if I was grateful.
Having lived in that high,
I couldn't go back to
My life, eking out my existence,
Without such intense torture,
Wanting that high again.
I had lived and
Now, I was addicted to life.
All because of a
Quietly wild girl
And her stick shift.
