The night hums like it’s waiting for her. Stars wink overhead, the moon hangs low, and the streets glow like a dance she can’t refuse. The breeze calms and turns cool. Streetlights spill warmth onto the roads, while houselights switch off in an untimely fashion, signalling the day’s end. A time for rest, for sleep, to unwind and prepare for tomorrow. But that’s not how it is for her.
For her, the night is daring. A time to move with the moon. Freedom wrapped in a liveliness that never fades.
“The night is young,” she whispers to herself.
She wraps a fluffy, white robe around her, pyjamas underneath. No need to impress, she’s not leaving the car. No show, no effort, just readiness. The night calls her name.
She climbs into the driver’s seat. The ignition’s buzz sends chills down her spine. The dashboard lights up. She lights up. Queues her favourite songs, the ones that fit the mood, the vibe. Volume at 52, loud enough to burst her eardrums, but she doesn’t care.
The car shifts into drive, and she’s off.
Wherever the road takes her, she goes. The night stretches before her like a ribbon of possibility and light, wild and wide beneath the wheels. Mist rolls in, settling low to the ground. Then she hears it. The faint organ, her late-night drive anthem.
She straightens, ready. Softly, she sings along, “I’m going back to 505…”
The first verse floats by like a quiet breath, but each line layers another sound, another spark. The drums slip in, then the bass, steady but insistent. She taps her foot without thinking. Her pulse matches the beat and the guitar swells, shimmering like the mist around her. Something inside her leans forward.
The tension grows. The road narrows. Her grip tightens on the steering wheel. Then, like a match to gasoline, the bridge hits. Her foot pushes down on the accelerator, the car rushes forward, as the engine roars in harmony with the music. With the same raw, emotional grit as Alex Turner, she belts into the night, “I crumble completely when you cry!”
It’s pure joy. Wind clawing at the windows and lights streaking past. The sound fills every space inside the car, as if the whole world is holding its breath until the song’s crescendo lets it go.
The mist slams against the windscreen, blurring the road ahead. No sign of the pavement. Just headlights cutting through vapor, like a dream unfolding in real time.
As the car passes through, the air clears just as the song fades.
“Cinematic,” she smiles to herself.
Rachel's (Very) Short Stories 