Every Sunday, after church, they would roll the windows down and take the country roads back to his house for a homemade breakfast. She never quite mastered the art of having her hair flow about gorgeously in the wind, but I don't think he ever minded. Every last one of their favorite songs always came on the radio. And they were always so loud, she could taste the passion of the lyrics on the tip of her tongue as they both screamed them out the open windows without a care in the world for harmony or tune.
"I'VE GOT A BAD FEELING ABOUT THIS!"
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