Perry's Truck [thatDelicateBalance]

Then and there, I decided that if I could live in a single moment forever, it would be that one. His truck had the soft, worn quality of home, the familiar comfort of a childhood blanket or toy, and a smell that was impossible to place but had every characteristic of a good couch: impossibly warm and soft, old somehow, and one you could sit in for hours without any urge to move. I curled up in my seat as if I'd grown up there, wearing a tanktop and loose sweatpants, hair in a pony like I'd just woken up even though it was past 9pm. One of My Chemical Romance's softer songs kept us company from the stereo, and I closed my eyes, inhaling the rich aroma that was my raspberry-caramel cappuccino.

He said, " I saw these guys in concert once," but the only important part was his voice, and the way I felt like I'd grown up hearing it. It was an old, dear friend that I'd only known for a few weeks and the soothing effect it held sank into my bones like the most welcome of all painkillers. I replied, my voice barely lifting above the music although it wasn't loud, and sipped the warm liquid from my cup. The heat slipped down my throat, flooding my body with a tingling kind of delight brought on only by hot caffeine. The soft music seemed to dance in the atmosphere and the streetlight behind us flickered, but never in a way that was interrupting. Outside my truck window the night was cool, but between the two of us and the music, the temperature was perfect.

I didn't dare glance at the clock although the numbers glared at me menacingly. Instead I leaned my head against the cold glass of the window and let the gentle sounds emanating from the stereo lull me into another place. The hard window supported my cheekbone in the most ironic way, and I stared ahead into the dark street in the hopes that if nothing moved, nothing would end.

To my dismay, a group of teenagers rounded the corner just as this thought registered, shattering the illusion that life could be this simply beautiful forever.

In the end I opened the heavy truck door and made my exit, but I felt as though I had been in the vehicle all night and it was a gentle form of comfort I had never felt before. Life can be found in the pretty little things--the way his voice diminished all stress, the way the wind didn't dare move but the streetlamp flickered sporadically, the smell and taste of coffee after a good cry. When I closed the door of his truck all those things disappeared, but I carry with me the calming feeling that it will be there always, and whenever I need it.

Like a good friend, like a homemade cookie, like an old CD.