A stubborn tomboy

Red light blinked beneath polycarbonate. An electrical chirp coincided with the ker-chunk of a releasing lock. The chassis sagged ever so slightly under an increase in weight. The door shut. Peyton dropped her bag onto the passenger seat, smoothly put the key into the ignition, and turned it.

The car—a 1990 Nissan 300ZX—rumbled to life. Peyton thought she heard a bit of a knocking noise coming briefly from the engine, and made a mental note to check on it later. Then she smiled. She always smiled when she was behind the wheel, even if she wasn’t driving anywhere important. She brushed a strand of her dark, shoulder-length hair out of her face, reversed out of the parking space, and maneuvered onto the road.

It wasn’t the most exciting drive of her life, but being on the road was nice on its own. At a red light, she briefly adjusted her seatbelt where it was digging into one boob. She put little stock in underwear, so there was no bra to pad against chafing.

No more than fifteen minutes after leaving, Peyton reached her destination.