unbornwhiskey:

I told her I was sorry for being late. There was an impressive car wash on the corner. If you looked hard at the cars you could retrieve and interpret a history, detect a primeval stage. Through a cleared window, a former driver with complicated hair. A smooth, gleaming exterior—a narwhal tusk. My foot felt miraculously heavy when I told her. She talked about her hometown, that’s it. There was a fire in the hills that consumed trees and houses idyllically. Whenever she was there she found she was always explaining herself in a dress.

I don’t know what this is but I like it  it’s a home run.