“How do you want yours?” I asked.
“Black!” exclaimed cliché. “I want it black as night. ”
I looked in the rear-view. “Wind, you want anything?”
“No,” sighed wind. “Wait…”
We idled a moment, until wind farted, stifling chuckles.
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“We’ll have a box of farts, please.” I said to the speaker-box, garnering giggles from the back seat.
cliché’s eyes rolled as wind resumed playing with the window button, raising it up, down, and up as we bumper-to-bumpered to the window.
