Everything was orange. The entire night glowed with the light from the street lights. The shadows were long and opaque stretching over the concrete sea across from the football stadium. It was if we were the only car in the parking lot. Yet, we were surrounded by dingy Civics and hatchbacks stuffed, to their torn headliners, of personal belongings - backpacks, plastic bins for organization, homework. The seats inside her all black 2002 Toyota Tocoma were grey with little blue and red pinstripes. There was nothing particularly flashy about the little truck. It had four doors, all worked accordingly. The seats were used but not torn or dirty - except for the cigarette hole in the passenger-side backseat. I am still unsure how it got there, whatever memory responsible for creating that blemish had been forgotten since I had entered her world. We both shared the front-right seat. Half cuddling, half crammed between the opposing armrests, the window, the center console, and the glovebox. This was not a space built for two people. Her head was nested in that little pocket between my arm, shoulder, and chest. In those moments we felt like the only people in the world. That moment felt eternal. Time was neither happening nor had happened. We simply sat there and endured.