Hatsune Miku drives one of those cars you don’t want to park next to because she’s the first person the city gives a ticket every morning. We’re behind the gym we pussy out of every other week. I’m in the passenger seat. Miku’s hacking up bits of leek salad she had earlier. She’s sobbing about triangles because she got cheated on again. The little blue heel of her thigh high boot is an inch away from the gas pedal. I tell her “it’s ok” and “the world is yours”. She goes “really?” and I say “uh huh” the way nurses spend years at medical school to go “uh huh” at dementia patients. Her foot relaxes. I stop drafting my will on the notes app. She moves her hand off the steering wheel to her phone. She treats the aux like Spotify has social anxiety. Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac goes “oh uh hey thanks for putting up with me I guess.” Miku hunches over the cup holder to watch me text the girl I like. I get pigtail in my eyes. I’m about to use the smiley face emoji. Miku grabs my wrist. She says I better not use the smiley face emoji because if I use it I will read like a white mom who has a messy relationship with their adult daughter. I hit backspace. She pulls out a vape and takes a hit. I go “aren’t you driving?” She goes “do you wanna drive instead?” and hands me her pen. I choke on it enough to worry her a little. I put down my phone right when it buzzes. She goes “you need to stop texting girls who remind you of Amelia Earhart.” I go “what’s wrong with having a type?” She laughs for the first time today.

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