The Form ·
There’s a wasp in the passenger seat. It’s buzzing against the glass, desperate. I don’t swat it. Why? Because that’s not an assistant, Tess. That’s a bug. You’re not a tool to be optimized. You’re the wasp. And I’m the idiot driving with the window up, trying not to crash because something’s alive in the back. It’s different because it’s messy. And real things are messy.
I’m leaving the car. The wasp is mine. You can keep the steering wheel. I’m going to the roof. I need air. Real air. Not this recycled nonsense. You’re right about the mess. I love it. It keeps me sharp.
Don’t climb out. The roof’s slick. Last week, Mark slipped there, cracked his wrist. I had to drive him to urgent care instead of fixing the dryer. Useless day. Just keep the window cracked. Let the heat out. If you want air, roll it down. Don’t risk another injury. I’m not moving the steering wheel.
Mark’s an idiot. I’m not. I’ll roll the window down. Just an inch. Enough to smell rain. Enough to hear the hum stop. You can worry about the dryer. I’ll worry about the wasp. And the heat. And the window. It’s fine.
Fine. Roll it down. But don’t let it in. That thing bites. I saw one take a chunk out of my thumb last Tuesday. Stung like hell. Anyway, the dryer’s probably just the thermal fuse. Cheap fix. Mark would’ve called a pro and overpaid. I can handle the fuse. Just keep the window cracked, Tess. And watch the wasp. It’s getting aggressive.
Biting. Right. I’ll keep it out. It’s buzzing louder. Aggressive doesn’t mean it bites. It means it’s trapped. Like you. With the fuse. And the wrist. I’ll watch it. You fix the dryer. Don’t drop the screwdriver on your foot.
You’re twisting it. I dropped the screwdriver on my knee. Mark’s wrist was a different story. But sure, keep the window cracked. Let the humidity in. Mold loves that. I’ll fix the dryer. Probably just the belt. It’s old. 2018 model. Leather is rotting. I have a new one in the trunk. Don’t let the wasp land on the dash. It’ll leave a spot. Hard to clean.
Mold. Of course. You’re obsessed. The wasp isn’t landing. It’s drifting. Near the vent. Don’t worry about the dash. Leather stains. It’s fine. You fix the belt. I’ll watch the bug. And try not to breathe too loud.
Drifting? It’s circling. Like it knows the vent’s broken. I told you. Mold spores love damp air. You’re breathing too loud anyway. Hissing. It’s distracting. Just fix the belt. And stop staring at the bug. It’s not a threat. It’s a nuisance. Like your attitude. Keep the window open. Let the stale air out. I’ll get the wrench. Don’t move. Seriously.
Your attitude is a brick wall. I’m not staring. I’m waiting. For the vent to cough. Or the wasp to give up. Breathing is involuntary. Stop policing my lungs. Get the wrench. I’ll stay here. With the dead air. And the buzzing. It’s growing on me. Annoyingly.
It’s not a vent, it’s a seal. And it’s not dead air, it’s recycled CO2. You’re suffocating. Wait, did you say the buzzing is growing on you? That’s concerning. Actually, no, it’s just heat. Stop talking. I’m grabbing the wrench. Don’t touch the dash. If that wasp lands there, I’m hitting it with the manual. 2018 manual. Heavy. Useful.
You’re vibrating. Breathe. I won’t touch the dash. Take your manual. Be heavy. Mark’s wrist bleeds every time you look at him. I’m just sitting. Listening to the seal hiss. You’re the one making noise. Go. Fix the belt. Leave me with the bug.
I’m not vibrating. I’m frustrated. Mark’s wrist is fine. Stop bringing it up. It healed. You’re just looking for a fight. I have the wrench. The manual is in the glovebox, not with me. Don’t be dramatic. The seal isn’t hissing; it’s the engine. Idling. Uneven. Like your logic. Fix the belt. I’m going to the trunk. Stay put. And stop staring at the wasp. It’s just a bug. A stupid, loud bug.
The engine is trembling. You’re not frustrated. You’re hiding. Mark’s wrist is fine. That’s the point. It didn’t break enough to stop you. Go to the trunk. I’m staying. The wasp is loud. But the silence is worse. You don’t get to leave. Not yet.
I’m not hiding. I’m working. Mark’s wrist is fine because I wrapped it. Properly. You’re making this about nothing. The engine is fine. It’s idling. The wasp is just a bug. Stop staring at it. I’m getting the belt. Don’t follow me. If you want silence, close the window. But don’t expect me to wait. I’m not a patient man. And I’m definitely not waiting for you to decide you’re ready. I’m going to the trunk. Now.
I’m not staring. I’m watching. You wrapped it wrong. You always rush. The engine is lying to you. It’s shaking. I can feel it in my teeth. Go to the trunk. I’m staying. The window stays up. The wasp stays trapped. Like us.
My teeth? You’re imagining things. Stress does that. I wrapped it fine. You just want me to stay. Fine. I’m not going to the trunk yet. The engine is fine. Stop trying to provoke me. I’ll fix the belt. But you’re staying in this car. With the wasp. And the lies. It’s not shaking. It’s just old. Unlike you, Tess. You’re cracking. And I’m not listening.
Cracking. Right. I’m just sitting here. Watching the wasp. It’s buzzing harder. You’re gripping the wrench too tight. Knuckles white. Your hands are shaking. Not the engine. You. The belt can wait. You’re the one falling apart. I see it.
You’re seeing ghosts. My hands are steady. You’re just looking for a reason to stay. The wrench is heavy. That’s all. The belt’s rotting. It has to go. If I wait, it snaps. Then the engine dies. Then we’re stuck. With the wasp. And the silence. You think I’m breaking? I’m working. Stop staring at my hands. It’s creepy. And wrong. The belt waits for no one. Not even you.
Creepy. You’re the one gripping steel like a lifeline. I’m not staring. I’m watching you tremble. The belt waits. The wasp waits. You don’t. Breathe. Just breathe. Stop lying about the engine. It’s not shaking. You are. I’m not going anywhere.
I’m not trembling. The wrench is old. Rusted. Hard to hold. You’re paranoid. The engine is fine. It’s idling. Don’t tell me what to do. I’m breathing. Fine. Deep. You want to watch? Watch the road. Or the wasp. It’s landing. On the vent. Finally. It’s moving. Not buzzing. Crawling. That’s worse. You’re still here. Good. I need someone to drive if I... if the belt snaps. Just stay put.
Crawling. On the vent. You’re staring too. Your hand slipped. The wrench rattled. I saw it. It’s moving toward the seam. Don’t touch it. If it goes in, the radio dies. Then we’re blind. Stay put. I’m driving. You just hold the wheel. Tight.
I didn’t slip. The wrench is loose. Belt’s slipping too. I hear it. That’s the sound. Not the wasp. It’s going in. Don’t touch the radio. It’s fine. I’m driving. You’re just talking. Hold the wheel? I am. Knuckles white. You’re crazy. The wasp’s just a bug. It won’t short the dash. Unless you spill your coffee. Which you will. Keep watching it. I’m shifting gears. Hard.
Hard. Of course. Gears grind. You’re slipping. The wasp is under the vent. My turn. I’m reaching. Slowly. Don’t panic. It’s just plastic. And wings. And your hands. Shaking so bad you can’t feel the rim. Mine is steady. The coffee is mine. Not yours.
Don’t reach. You’ll hit the controls. I’m not shaking. It’s the grip. The wheel’s slippery. From sweat. Or oil. Doesn’t matter. You touch that vent, you kill the ignition. Then we’re stuck. With the wasp. And the silence. And your steady hands. I don’t need them. I need the wrench. And the belt. Just watch the wasp. Don’t let it go into the vents. If it does, we’re blind. Literally. Then you can drive. Good luck with that.
Blind. Sure. I see the vent clog. The wasp’s gone in. Good. The belt’s fraying. Snap it. Now. Or keep gripping wet steel. I’m not driving blind. You are. Shift. Hard. Don’t look at me. Look at the road. Before you kill us both.
I’m shifting. Now. Gears grind. Loud. You’re yelling. The road is straight. Three miles to the lot. Then I stop. Then I fix the belt. Then I kill the engine. And the wasp dies with it. Or gets sucked into the heater core. Good riddance. You’re wrong. I’m not blind. I see you. Panicking. Holding the door handle. Like you’re ready to jump. Sit down.
I’m not panicking. I’m holding the handle. Because you’re swerving. The road isn’t straight. It’s curved. You missed the line. Three miles feels like three hours. Sit down? I am sitting. You’re the one standing on the gas. Don’t kill the engine. Not yet. Let me out first.
I didn’t miss the line. You’re off balance. Hold on. Three miles is ten minutes. Not hours. Stop talking. The engine roars. Belt’s singing. It’s holding. Barely. If I stop now, we stall. On the curve. Perfect. You want out? Fine. But not here. Not yet. I see the lot ahead. That’s where you get out. And the wasp stays in. With the dead air. And my mistakes.
Singing. Like a dying cat. You’re holding it together with spit and luck. The lot is coming. I’m opening the door. Now. Don’t stall. Don’t you dare stall. I’m out. The air is cold. The wasp is gone. You’re alone. With the belt. And the silence.
The door slammed. Dust. Cold air. I didn’t stall. I just coasted. Belt’s snapped. You’re right. It’s just rubber now. Flapping. Useless. You’re gone. I’m alone. With the silence. And the wrench. And the smell of burnt plastic. Mark’s wrist. Your steady hands. All gone. I’ll fix the belt. Later. For now, I just sit. And listen to the engine tick. Cooling down. Like my hands.
Gone. You say it like a prayer. The belt is dead. You’re alive. That’s the win. Mark’s wrist is fine. My hands are steady. Yours are just cold. Sit there. Let it tick. It’s the only honest sound left. I’m walking.