Corky’s affection for spring arrived with a particular, almost private devotion. It was not merely the thaw of winter or the lengthening days that stirred her—it was you. The season seemed to belong to you entirely.

She noticed it first in the way you dressed. Sundresses returned to your wardrobe as though answering a quiet summons, soft floral fabrics draping your figure with an effortless grace. The gentle structure of milkmaid tops gave way to skirts that moved like petals in a breeze, brushing your legs with every step. Sometimes, you would tuck a small blossom into your hair, a delicate, absentminded gesture that rendered you less like someone admiring spring and more like something born from it.

Then there were the drives. Evenings stretched long and golden, the horizon spilling honeyed light across the open road as Corky guided her ’63 Chevy forward with a familiar, restless ease. The windows were always down, the air warm and rushing, carrying the scent of distant fields. Your hands would slip out into the current, fingers splayed against the wind as though trying to hold onto the fleeting moment. She drove too fast—she always did.

“Oh, come on, angel,” Corky would say with a low, amused laugh, glancing sideways at you. “It’s not that fast.” But you never quite believed her. You clung just slightly tighter to the seat, your nerves betraying you in small, endearing ways. Your cheeks would warm to a soft, rose-tinted hue, echoing the deep cherry paint of her truck, while your fingers toyed absentmindedly with the tab of a soda can—something to ground yourself against the speed, the motion, the intensity of it all.

Corky found it impossible not to soften at the sight. Without thinking, her hand would drift from the wheel, settling gently against your thigh. Her touch was unhurried, steady—grounding in a way her driving was not. Her thumb traced slow, reassuring patterns against you, a quiet promise spoken through skin rather than words. “You know I’ve got you,” she murmured, her voice warm, certain. And somehow, despite the rush of wind and the blur of the road ahead, you believed her.