Negative Momentum

The rain is pounding on the car.
Inside, windows all shut and fogging up, the storm sounds harder than it is, drops pounding on the hollow metal frame, echoing and lost in the silence.
And when it rains on a car when I am in it, I always feel that echoing echo through my soul.
In the car that's how it starts. Hollow.
The engine is on. And we kiss, and she is smiling and I'm not sure if I'm smiling back and only keep on kissing.
When I confirm I don't feel anything I pull away. She stares at me, brown eyes big.
"I don't know," I say, look away, at the rain slashing aross the parking lot in the dark midnight, the streetlights above us reflecting off the sleek ground.
"That felt good," she said.
"I don't know." And I look at her and draw one of those it-was-good-while-it-lasted smiles and she doesn't say anything. My voice is hollow and echoing. I look away. I step out, not worried about the weather, the rain streaking down my face, not worried about her.
My cloths are immediately soaked. And I walk away.
That's how it ends.
Back in my own car, then. And while driving I feel good or feel hollow and think that this is what it is to be dead.