Your body moves in time to the thumps and pulses of the heavy bass beat. The sun glints off your mirrored glasses, flashes off the gold chain that rests against your chest. Your powerful biceps are bared in the white tank as you start to mouth the words to the song. I glance up and notice that you've moved closer. I can feel you breathing on the back of my neck, every beat bringing you closer and closer. I start to get nervous and move a little further away. You follow, pressing ever closer.
In a club, I'd feel a combination of annoyance and flattery. I may be married, but I'm not dead nor am I immune to the white of your smile. But we're not in a club. We're driving down the highway. So, Mr. Altima...
Get. Off. My. Ass.
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