They adopt the body of the baby-blue hatchback as their own. Their minds begin to feel dented like the front bumper; the parts designated to consider the future have been bashed in. They no longer wear seatbelts and have given up on any destination. She flicks a month’s worth of birth control pills out the window, popping them from the flesh-colored case one at a time. He says, “Baby, whatever happens happens.”
She thinks that sounds like the name of a dance move and laughs, “The happens happens,” wiggling one bare foot against the dash. (ms)
