Cruising along at night on the highway, Mitch holds the wheel soft in his hands, the leathery rubber cover of it spongy and warm from use. His feet, formerly tired and a bit red from too much standing, and his legs, also previously tired, sit in the dark under the dash and tap along on the pebbly auto carpet. He is comfortable.He clicks on the radio from the silence and scans the stations. He finds one that he likes and returns to the wheel.
He begins to sing, making up his words as he rolls along the interstate.
"Ooooo, baby, yeah baby, you I ain't tired toniiiiight, oooo baaaby, always just ready to fiiiiight, uhm...mmmm...mm.mm..mm.mmmJust the speed baaby--things always on tiiiiiiiiime, yeaaaaaah..."
Summer is near, and he likes that.
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