So here we are, now, doin’ what we call a front seat confessional. It’s easier for us to talk with me behind the wheel and you the passenger princess, ‘cause both of us are always lookin’ forwards; ‘cause we don’t gotta meet each other’ eyes; it’s better for us to talk when we’re not at your house, in your pale pink bedroom, or at my house, where my mom loves to ask how we girls are farin’. I think of your eyes, those earthy brown bugs of beauty, ‘cause I can’t look at ‘em and watch the road at once. Here’s a memory: us gettin’ drunk off my mama’s unattended whiskey. It tasted so gross we barely had enough to even get drunk. I got real giggly, and you got real loud. I couldn’t stop lookin’ at your eyes, and you couldn’t stop talkin’ ‘bout my hands. We never talked ‘bout it, never needed to talk ‘bout it; you never wanted to talk ‘bout it. Moon’s up, you note as you catch a glimpse of it between trees out your window, that big eye that watchin’ over us from the sky. I like when the moon’s up. It’s like she’s lookin’ out for me, ya know? I say, and you nod in agreement. On the driver’s side, I see Big Mama Justice in the distance, standin’ tall and stark against her black background. We get closer and closer to Mama, then pass her and watch her fade away in the rear view mirrors. Can’t believe that billboard’s still up, I mumble to myself, and you already know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. You’re tellin’ me you don’t love Big Mama Justice? I chuckle and beg for forgiveness; ‘course I love Big Mama Justice. We silently agree to stare at the streetlights that line the empty road. You say the dim yellow light that spills from them reminds you of pollen and murky water but not the sun. I say it’s a damn streetlight, it ain’t that deep. You look at me–I don’t look back but I feel your eyes on my face–and I break character and snicker a little bit. It does have that pollen-like look. Maybe some poor bee’ll come by tryin’ to spot some more flowers, I say. Bees don’t look for pollen, idiot, they look for nectar, you reply. Oh, we got the bee police over here now? Damn right you do. It feels like there’s somethin’ in the air, maybe pollen, that makes the conversation flow slow and steady, languid like the drippin’ of honey off a spoon. But I’d be mistaken to blame that on some outside force. God is here with both of us in this confession booth of a red Subaru Crosstrek, and I know he’s judgin’ us. I know we shouldn't've brought whatever we are into this holy place, but I can’t bring myself to regret it right now, and I know you can’t either. I am brought back to the first time you leaned into me, at that hotel far from home, on that school trip, watchin’ that god-awful horror movie. In my mind’s eye your hand is still on my arm, your skin burnin’ into mine. We didn’t ever talk ‘bout that, either. In the car, now, I steal a glance at you and you’re lookin’ forward, as always. Maybe someday, in some other car, you’ll look at me first. Then, when I can’t help but give in to the urge to look at you, our eyes’ll meet, and we’ll finally talk face to face.