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1124
Front Seat Murphy

I can feel myself tremble. Pushing speeds I haven't seen in months since my accident--our accident. My upper lip is jumping about, I feel like a dog with my head out of the window, lips and saliva flapping about. Bugs sting my grill but it's bearable--worth it to hit these speeds.
She must trust me again. I don't know how to console her when I feel her body tremor in my grips. I wish I could hug her, swallow her whole and make the tears stop. She's loosing track of the speedometer--it makes me nervous, but I know I can handle it. At least, I feel as though the brace I've been adorned with is enough to hold my mouth shut entirely.
Her tears are salty, she keeps wiping them on my fabric, my speakers blare--apparently she doesn't like the sound of her sobs.
I wish I knew what was wrong, what I did. Clearly it doesn't have anything to do with taking me out on the highway again.. she wasn't crying the other day on route 90, but instead laughing and pushing around the male in my passenger. That seat is cold, littered with bottles, cigarettes, and trash. I feel trashed, I hope she comes back to sorts and helps me out. If I could I would open my doors and expel everything she didn't want.
"What have I done," she mumbles in an exasperated sob. I am blowing cold air on her face, the tears streaking down her face begin to dry as she turns my knob to full blast.

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