Whenever a girl got into my car, any chance of my paying undivided attention to the highway disappeared. With a girl beside me, so that I felt her, all the way down the length of my ribs and under my arm, along the outside length of her thigh and the curve of her hip joint, made me feel large in the driver’s seat, reassured my vanity. Her closeness was a fragile promise, subject to break, so delicate that I would be apprehensive of moving a muscle, as if a sleeping kitten lay curled in my lap.

Conversation erupted and dribbled away. Foolishness multiplied when we parked the car, me naturally designing to cruise the curves of the girl, to take them at maximum speed, all to soothe vanity, multiply my size in the driver’s seat of a six-cylinder Mustang.