She drives me. . .

I looked in Sam's eyes (which glowed green amid the darkness), then down at the keys. I let my gaze rest there.

'You don't have a license,' I said.

'Yeah,' she said, a dangerous smile creeping its way across her face. 'So?'

'Just commenting, that's all.' I crossed my arms, pointed one foot toward home.

After tossing her hair copiously into the growing wind, Sam crept closer. . .closer. . .her lips coming nearly to rest on my cheek. 'It'll be more fun this way, Alford,' crooned she. 'C'mon.'

Why do they always have to call me Alford? I thought. And why does it always make me want to accompany them, without delay, to the nearest bower?

'Have you ever driven before, Samantha?'

'Once,' she said, torridly, arching her back and thrusting her chest forward, as if the mere question brought her near orgasm.

'What happened?'

'I hit a mailbox, scattered wild turkeys and a clump of hedgehogs, and ended up in Mr. Hanson's living room.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah.' (Once again near climax.) 'He would have called the police,' moaned she, 'but I pleaded with him, and we ended it with me doing him a nice. . .um. . .favor.'

'Let me guess,' said I, '--you bought him a lifetime supply of semisweet chocolate?'

'Exactly. Now, c'mon, Alfie'--quickly resuming orgasm mode and fluttering her eyelashes coquettishly--

'Let's go.'