There’s something different about a road-trip, some strange rolling intimacy that only hours spent side by side, radio on and trading memories and mindlessness can create.
I’ve flown with Mulder, spent hours locked away in a dusty basement with him and his obsession, but this is the first time we’ve driven this far and though I’d rather die than admit it,
I’m enjoying myself.
Tipped back in the passenger seat, window wound down, I watch Mulder spin the dial on our rental radio, searching for a station that’s not pop or preaching.
Static feeds into our comfortable silence until I hear the unmistakable opening chords of Eric Clapton’s Layla and shoot upright to still my partner’s restless hand on the dial.
‘I love this song!’ I explain, whizzing the twizzler I have pilfered from Mulder’s junk food haul around in some vaguely rhythmic pattern.
I love music I just lack the skill set to express that love very elegantly.
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