He could drive.

At that time, it seemed exotic and grown up and a doorway to that world. 

He crossed himself a couple of times. Mixed up a couple of lies, overlapped details of parties 

legendary enough to resemble those on the big screen.

She wasn't stupid.

But he could drive and he'd lived a life.

He sounded sad.

Of course he meant to, to the only audience that gave him ungrudging attention.

She listened, flattered.

He could drive and she'd seen him cry.

It took a while.

It took learning how to be alone and friends who, no matter what, picked up their phone.

It took books and coloured pencil and facing the mirror.

It took learning to drive.

Before she stopped dragging him up the pedestal.

It wasn't his fault, it wasn't hers.

She'd simply carved lonely into a person.

Then grew up, and broke away.