We listened to songs like
Come on Eileen, and
Girls Like You, and
Shell Suite, and then
Come on Eileen again.
And I was laughing,
not because anything was funny
but because I was so happy
that my laughter burst from me like
air out of a popped balloon, or
blood from a stab wound, or
rain from a rain cloud.
Every now and then I would look at Briony
and then into the dark night around us.
She would be singing the words,
sometimes stumbling them.
I wanted to grab the moon in my hands,
write the lyrics into my skin
cry into my sleeve, or
ask her to keep driving.
But soon enough we reached the station
and my mum got in the car.
I was nodding my head to Come on Eileen.
“Isn’t it a bit loud?” mum said.
And, a few seconds later, asked
“Can you turn it down?”
And I did.