cankerbloxxom

We were going down the Clyde towards the coast. I was driving; so fast that the trees whipped by in a blur. My passenger was nervously gripping their seat, knuckles turned white. I pressed on the accelerator and we hurtled around and down steep hairpin corners. I kept going faster and faster, and my passenger was getting more and more agitated, fearful of bursting through the roadside barriers and rolling down the side of the mountain. I was talking, but they weren’t listening. I was trying to explain why I like George Orwell so much, but instead of paying attention to me, their eyes were transfixed on the road, eyes wide with terror. If they had just listened to me, I would have slowed down. But they wouldn’t. So I didn’t.