You’re driving the dragon-green Sharan.
The roads wind in curves through the Italian landscape.
The Tarzan soundtrack is playing; Phil Collins is singing. I have the window down on the passenger side.
You’re driving a bit too fast and everyone except you is a little afraid. You’re having fun and laughing out loud.
Cheeky. Young. Carefree.
The wind brushes over my sun-browned, salty skin and the air smells of macchia.
I feel free and full of joy for life. Yours has rubbed off on me.
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