Sitting in the waiting room of the Richfield-Bloomington Honda service department while my oil gets changed and my tires rotated, I read along in John Updike's Self-Consciousness and come to this passage--he's describing occasional neighborhood ski trips to New Hampshire from his home in Ipswich, Massachusetts:
Our trips to the tonic north country squeezed us all into one smoky automobile and felt like a holiday back into adolescence. We would become a pack, welded together by the day's fatigue and bruises and beer. I seem to remember, on one endless drive back home in the dark down Route 93, while my wife sat in the front seat and her hair was rhythmically irradiated with light from opposing headlights, patiently masturbating my back-seat neighbor through her ski pants, and taking a comradely pride in her shudder of orgasm just as we hit the Ipswich turn-off.
That feeling when you look up from the page and are a little surprised to note that your fellow customers retain their bored, impassive faces.
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