He could drive well, when he kept the speed reasonable, I had to admit. Like so many things, it seemed to be effortless to him. He barely looked at the road, yet the tires never deviated so much as a centimeter from the center of the lane. He drove one-handed, holding my hand on the seat. Sometimes he gazed into the setting sun, sometimes he glanced at me -- my face, my hair blowing out the open window, our hands twined together.
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He had turned the radio to an oldies station, and he sang along with a song I'd never heard. He knew every line.
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"You like fifties music?" I asked.
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"Music in the fifties was good. Much better than the sixties, or the seventies, ugh!" He shuddered. "The eighties were bearable."
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第十四章: 精神胜于物质 Mind Over Matter
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