Friday is kissing close to Saturday and the clubs are too close with their music and bodies packed in too tight, spilling over to the streets. You: are huddled underneath a blanket in the backseat, too broke for a hotel, too broke to join the fun, hoping your bladder holds until it’s quieter out there. You don’t want to deal with the horde of drunk people passing the car, all of them loud and threatening in their own way—the men cuz they’re men, the women with their cutting remarks; the men with their big hands and the women with their cutting stares. You: with your hair unwashed for five days and clothes slept in for two. You: huddled beneath this blanket smelling of smoke and BO, hoping your feet in their clunky black boots aren’t sticking out. You: almost out of gas and hoping you don’t get towed or broken into, no longer sure which would be worse.

You listen to men pass by, quieter and passing a joint between them; a gaggle of girls flows by, one of the absolutely heartbroken, the others refusing to let anything ruin their night out. Just as you’re dozing off, despite the flow of people and constant grumble of cars, there’s a thunk as something hits your car.

Or someone, rather. Someones. You jolt and peek your head out and there’s a back pressed to the window, hands roaming under a jacket, as a couple enthusiastically makes out. You feel your face grow hot and you rebury yourself as their actions continue to shift the car. The barely audible lovespeak makes you think of the only and only time you and Drew tried (and failed) to hookup in this very backseat. And that was only one of the reasons you ran away from your hometown.