An extract from something (a novella? a long-short story?) that I've been writing, but keep forgetting I'm writing. I hope by posting it here, it will remind me to keep going with it. 'Cos some of it is really quite good.
Richard is twelve years older than me. He doesn’t let me forget this. I move to change the radio station on the car stereo, and he swipes at my hand.
‘This, my love, is pure Americana. We have to listen to it, absorb its cultural power, its lamenting blue-collar dream-soaked working-man symbolism, otherwise... otherwise what's the point of taking this road trip?’
I just want something I can sing along to.