As the car’s top peels back, her hair is immediately caught by the draft.
"Please," she begs, hands clasped on her head, "close it. I just got my hair done."
Steadily accelerating as they merge with traffic, the engine croons; he smiles, and she simpers.
"Come on," he insists, finding it increasingly hard to entirely pay attention to the road as opposed to her, "you feel that?"
Catching wind of a few errant notes from the radio, he starts to bob emphatically; reaches towards the dashboard, and turns up the volume.
Fed up, she lets go of her hair and shakes her head in quiet resignation. A gesture not to be misinterpreted, for it was accompanied by a smirk and a deferent twist of the neck; an act not of malcontent but instead of gratitude. She decides to herself - “This is what I love about him.”
Miles of road; music blaring; and a milky-orange sky before them, she fixes her sunglasses atop the bridge of her nose; and releasing the tautness preserving the defiance in her lips, she admits, “Yeah, this is nice,” places her hand on his nearest thigh and throws her head back into the seat.