Pink Moon

She sat happily in the back seat, ensconced in the red leather interior of a 56 Chevy. Chris was at the wheel, telling the one about the farmer and the goat; loudly, unafraid of the passing vehicles that blared by heedlessly. They did fifty up the canyon, down the winding cliff walk. All she could see was starlight and whitewashed fencing.

And Christian's arm around her shoulders.

They were headed for a beach party; some rat calling herself 'Chicklet' had invited them all there for drinks and dancing. Well, they took one look at that rickety shack and knew it was stalker city. Instead, Chris was taking the long way home.

"Lita's happy." Chris noted, his eyes on the rearview mirror.

"Mm?" She asked, her mouth filled with ice cream.

"Your feet are on Christian's lap. Let me revise that; Christian's happy."

A glob of vanilla ice cream found it's place on Chris' part; slowly, it made an icy trail down the divide of his shaking head, only enhancing his laughter.

The wind whipped Lita's hair out of a tightly constructed ponytail, painting the navy of the night sky with an orange hue. They laughed, flirting, in the back seat, as Chris spun the radio's dial.

Searching for something other than nu goth, he found a station beaming out Don McLean. In silent reverence, they listened to "Vincent" as the car wound it's way over the sea cliffs, finally finding a wooded back road that would take them home.

When the song was over, when the car cleared a wooden lane, Lita shifted her bare, sandy feet in Christian's lap, making a more snug connection. He squirmed.

She smirked.

Pink Moon.

The End