Palomino Drive

"2:22," she says. "That's good luck."

When she leans back into the driver's seat, and rests her head against the window, the streetlight catches in her eyes. Makes them look like they're glowing. He can't help but smile, even if he doesn't know why. That giddy feeling welling up inside of him, he has to look away to hide it.

"Good luck?" He asks. If nothing else, to keep this conversation going, because he doesn't want it to end. Because the minutes of this night are dwindling away like the ever fading light of the stars overhead. Soon, he knows, the sky will purple, like a giant bruise on the horizon. The sun will creep over the peaks of the mountains, burn it all away.

She nods and the bangs flutter in front of her eyes. Like a butterfly softly beating wings against skin.

So, like to make time stop, he leans in and kisses her. For good luck. For the hope that the fireworks now erupting inside of him— the energy he feels in their trembling breaths when they pull away—last forever. The two of them existing somewhere on the edge of time. Where they can clutch onto each other in the encroaching darkness, watching galaxies shimmering in their eyes, whole worlds being birthed anew.