The car brakes down the hill outside his window, shiny black and coolly reflective under the orange glow of the streetlight. Its origin unknown—a stealthy visitor from a faraway land, he thinks, a traveler announcing her presence with the low, almost imperceptible ‘whoosh’ of slowing air riding over finely engineered curves. Air. Air like fingers, reaching ’round the hood, brushing in long, light strokes over the windshield. Air like fingers, working, wrapping, wrapping her like a cocoon, a web—no, a fine cigar, skin taut and tight—wrapping her like a Christmas present come two days late.
It will never be enough, he thinks, to peer through these panes. She stops, and takes a right.
The orange glow of the streetlight never dims. It shines on the black asphalt, aflame.