I felt a breeze in a windowless room.

It had only been four hours, but it felt like we were driving all night. Headlights, tailights, billboards and exit signs seemed to create this blur of redundancy that caused my eyes to feel heavy as the sounds of talk radio echoed in the background. I was just happy that I got to share the car with my best friend, and it made the whole trip worth my while.

I guess now would be a good time to fill you in on why I was driving in the first place. Death caught my friend Javier by surprise.

I wasn't suprised.

Javier was driving his '63 Pontiac Firebird in Portland. Javier loved coffee, so he decided that he would drive from Portland to Seattle before work to get a good cup of coffee. The problem was that Seattle is three hours from Portland, and Javier had to be back in an hour. Javier liked to drive fast, so he made it to Seattle in an hour. 170 miles an hour, and Javier survived. I was in awe when he called me to tell me, but I had to ask. " I thought you had to be back in an hour." All he said was that it was a "damn good cup of coffee". He hung up the phone and I never heard from him again.

They found Javier's body crashed into a tree on I-5. The car was still in tact, and although the tree was pretty banged up, it wasn't excessive speed that killed my friend. I guess he forgot to ask for soy milk. Javier was deathly lactose intolerant, and there wasn't an epi-pen anywhere to be found in that firebird. I think he'd laugh pretty hard if he knew how he died. And I thought he'd fall off of a cliff or something... the damn barista needed to get his head out of his ass. I'm inspired. I'm going to write a book called "The Great Coffee Murder".

I guess I was supposed to be sad about Javier, but I just couldn't get my mind off of my best friend and our alphabet game. She won, but I'll get her next time.