"Well I would like a Maserati, but we can't all get what we want, can we Julian?" I say sarcastically after his unexpected agreement.
Julian whispers something in his mind, so quietly I can barely hear it.
Speak up, I urge.
I said, he repeats, I had one of those. Overrated car. Can barely drive straight.
I can see a vehicle whizz by in my mind's eye and I realize Julian is sharing his memory with me. Hands a few decades than mine and Julian's grip a steering wheel of a swanky car that I've only seen in magazines, steering it around a track. Someone sits in the passenger's seat, probably someone young based on the ripped jeans and sneakers I can see out of the corner of 'my' eye. But before the memory goes on to show the identity of the person in that seat, it is cut off.
You know I don't have the faintest clue of how I would send you back, don't you? I admit.
I do.
