Highway Mileage

She came on out of the Diner and tossed a bunch of junk in the back seat of my car. I just looked at it. It was a long day and I was tired from too much cheap, greasy food and hard stuff.
We patched out into the night.
"Now this is America," she said.
I reached over and turned up the radio while she reached into the back seat and started pulling out little thrift store dresses that she wanted to try on.
She shimmied out of her jeans and started putting one dress on right after another.
She was smooth and easy while the changes were made and I could smell the sweat on her skin even with the windows down.
She made me pull over and she got out to strut in front of the headlights; a little fashion show right there in the highway.
Short skirts; go-go boots; sundresses. It was a-okay.
She bent all the way over without using her hands and brought her lips to the center line.
She popped back up and looked at me.
"Kiss the road," she said.
She slid back into the seat next to me and we were gone again like a shade in the deep scar through the night that the headlights carved out for us.
She leaned way back against the window and smiled at me all crooked. Then she put her head in my lap.
I just turned up the radio and rolled the windows down all the way.
We tore off into the wild lightning midnight and, through the wind from the open windows, I swear I could hear Jesus screaming my name.