Driving Without Gloves

Maison Fabre driving gloves $165, Saks.com
“Let’s drive,” I say to The Boy, my boy, when he asks if I want dinner delivered or picked up. We ride his elevator to the garage, and I’m tempted to jump in the little lift. We’re out before I do, and I play police woman in my platforms and fox-trimmed coat, directing The Boy out of his dark, deep driveway, hopping into his Porsche as it warms on the empty street. As he grabs his Carrera’s stick shift, sliding gears in and out, my hand shifts to his pants, resting where each leg grinds into the other.

I pet him as softly as his thumb rubs against the sphere of his stick shift, as the black air from the ocean breaths on the city lights lining the coast. I watch him drive, feeling each time he pumps his feet in a half-second dance to switch gears. He swings wide through a curve on a cliff, while my hand hugs the circle of his thigh.

“Feel good to drive your car?” I ask. He has my same commute, only minus trashy lingerie and plus a marble staircase: a roll out of bed, into a desk chair.

“Very good.” A quick shift punctuates his statement. The car’s insides glow dark against the soft neon of its speedometer, and beyond the windshield jet air glitters with Los Angeles life. The distant glimmer sparks off a yellow sign requesting we drive 35 mph. Before I realize The Boy’s cruising at 90, the sign’s miles behind.

The Carrera’s motor moans, a steady breath, like a lover squeezing pleasure out of her every effort.

“When’s the last time you drove this fast?” The Boy asks, rolling in and out a river of traffic, flashing his brights, deliberating in a blink before picking each lane. His eyes meet mine in his rearview mirror, and he moves his car from fourth to third gear as the traffic light we past shifts to red.

“With you,” I say, lifting my head, sucking in air. “You know I enjoy this so much more than those fashion events I’m supposed to hit?” I remember an hour slotted away in my calendar for tomorrow, with an RSVP I’ve already forgotten in favor of writing this. “Life’s too short to spend it doing only what you think you should.” I tug on his pants. “So pull over into that alley.”

“You’re right,” says The Boy, but we fly past it. “Only I don’t want us to get arrested.”

“It could be hot,” I argue, though our bubble of space in his sports car is already alive with heat. I feel my seat belt like gravity, a warm line tugging me into place, snug in my leather seat like I’ve settled in rich red earth. The motor moving us is our sun. Life outside is a smooth blur, and instead of emphasizing our speed, watching the world wash away through my window slows our inside time to a constant present, paused from future or past.

We stop to pick up sushi, and then we’re a blink and red lights run away from The Boy’s house. He slips inside the garage, and I climb out of the car and smell the tires burning, sweating dry.

“Do you feel that heat from the tires?” The Boy looks at me. “It felt good to get the car out.”

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