On a muggy July day I found myself parked on the side of the road somewhere near Whiting waiting for the car to move. The sky was the color of old denim and the distant ridgeline of the Green Mountains was in shades of green and purple. Ahead, the pavement cut a broad, jet-black ribbon straight toward the horizon.
The car had shuddered and died. A stunning stream of expletives ensued from my girlfriend’s mouth.
“I’ve had it,” she said, her jaw set in frustration. “I quit.”
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