"Come on, now...," he whined, as he threw his shiny new four-by-four into park on a narrow stretch of dirt road off the Natchez Trace and switched off the engine, "...it ain't nothin;" and she could the rising protuberance beneath his blue jeans as he edged across the seat nearer to her, slipping his hand behind her and around her waist. The interior of the pickup truck had grown cramped and musty, the air stale with the smell of sweat and tobacco juice - his smell - she longed for the cool air outside and as his hand found its way up underneath her blouse she could feel the warm sweat, sticky on his palm and the steely chill of his diamond class ring moving slowly up the small of her back. Gripping her skin with his fingers he pulled at her, pulled her body against his and with his free hand began to unbutton her skirt - the very same blue denim skirt given to her just days before by her daddy on her sixteenth birthday - his wet fingers like sausages poking in at the flesh on the insides of her thighs. "No...," she said, pushing at him, pulling his hand by the wrist from beneath her skirt and attempting to re-join the loosened ends together, "...I don't want to...;" but instead of releasing her his lips spread grinning over his teeth and he tightened his grip on her - "Aw, come on now...." - and looking up into his face she could see the little dark brown lumps of chewing tobacco between his teeth, "...it ain't nothin...." The nighttime world outside the windows of the pickup truck seemed increasingly distant, the trees and the lights of nearby family homes and the rushing-past of cars on the parkway behind them; all distant, all quite beyond her reach. Now encased in his custom-built, interior world amid the symbols of his status - silver football medal hanging from the rear-view mirror, prom king portrait of himself clipped to the windshield visor, blue-and-gold Tupelo High letterman jacket draped over the seat back as if all placed there to remind her of her own White Trash insignificance; as if to say: "Who the hell do you think you are to tell me no?" - she felt her hair caught in his rear-window gun rack and her knee knocking against the knob of the gear shift. As its last button was undone she felt her skirt falling open around her waist, her blouse hiked up nearly to her shoulders and his fingers fumbling at the snap of her bra; her body at increasing degrees of exposure she watched him unfastening his belt, unbuttoning and unzipping his blue jeans, grubby little eyes and tobacco-stained teeth grinning down at her and she remembers this now, seeing him with his attorney-at-law daddy today as she stands holding her baby in the checkout line at Wal-Mart.