I lean forward and turn the radio up, filling the car with rhythm and blues. It's coming up on midnight on a Sunday, and I'm strapped into the passenger seat of her red Honda. I'm in a town I haven't seen in months, next to somebody I don't really wanna be with. The car's a/c is broken, so we have our windows down, and I'm smelling the summer air as she drives.
We hit a stoplight. Idly, I turn my head to the right, register the car that sits there humming next to us. Dark blue Grand Marquis. Fortyish woman at the wheel, blonde, dressed to the nines in silver glittery sequins. Next to her sits a young girl, maybe seventeen or eighteen, also blonde, clad in a purple dress. In the back are who I gather to be the father and the little brother. The dad has a mustache, curly grey-black hair, is dressed in the remnants of a tux. The little boy, twelveish, is wearing a suit, his hair slicked back Fonzie style. In his lap he holds a trumpet.

It's 11:54 PM on a Sunday in early May. Tomorrow's a school day for these kids, a work day for mom and pop. What are they doing out at this time, dressed like this, equipped with a trumpet? I can see the mom's mouth break into a smile as she laughs over her shoulder at one of the gents in the backseat. In ten seconds, the light is going to turn green, and we're both going to take off on our own separate but parallel stretches of dark, and I'll never see the people in this car again.
I'm guessing that the man is a musician--a jazz outfit, maybe, though a classical concert would explain the tuxedo. He plays the trumpet, and they're on their way back from a big performance. Perhaps he played at a wedding reception, or at a fancy gig in the city that you could have bought tickets for. The kind of gig where the theater seats have gold trim and the women all seem to smell of the same strong perfume. And now they're tired, happy, heading home.

Mom's at the wheel because Dad has had a couple glasses of wine--or else because he's left his glasses at home, since he would be appearing onstage and didn't want the people in the audience to know he's nearsighted. Dad's in the back with his son because the little guy had gotten into a rift with his sister--the way he's clutching that trumpet suggests that he doesn't want to let it go. Maybe that's because he can't play, but his sister can. Maybe she plays the trumpet and marches in the high school bad and is the apple of her dad's eye, since he teaches music at the school. So maybe the boy smarted off to sis during the concert and now they're not speaking, though tomorrow all will be forgiven and they'll be riffing on each other as they wait outside for the school bus to come and haul them off to another day. Right now, though, they're all just anxious to get home, to their two-story house alongside the highway with the gravel drive and the brown picket fence, the basketball hoop and the flower garden. They'll all make it home and collapse into their beds, remembering to fold their good clothes so they don't wrinkle.

"Huh? Huh?" she's speaking to me.
I turn my head. "What?"
"Answer me."
"Sorry," I say. "Guess I didn't hear the question."

She bristles. Her face goes a dark pink, her jaws twist. When she speaks again, it's with a nasal exhale. "Uh-uh. Nope. No way am I gonna repeat it. After saying all that, no way. You don't wanna pay attention to me, that's fine. I just won't talk to you the rest of the damn night."
"Okay." I say. And then I turn my head back to the car that's still humming along next to us.