Fine. I’m fine. Looked fine, anyway. Stood there in that terrible oversized shirt from the dive bar on 4th. The one with the band we don’t even like. You bought it for me. Said it looked ironic. I just wear it because it’s soft. Why did you leave? It wasn’t even midnight. The streetlights were buzzing. I thought you went home. Or maybe I thought you’d come back. The shirt is itchy.
I wasn’t there. That’s the thing. I remember the shirt. Just the shirt. Blue. Faded. I woke up in my car. Engine cold. You weren’t in the driver’s seat. Must have been a long night. My head still hurts.
You were in your car? I sat in the passenger seat. The heater was broken. My teeth were chattering. I remember you trying to start it. Click, click. Nothing. You looked at me like I’d stolen the keys. I didn’t. I left them in the ignition. You said I was being dramatic about the cold. You told me to wrap the blanket around your shoulders. I did. It smelled like stale coffee and that cheap cologne you hate. You closed your eyes. You didn’t move when the tow truck came.
I don’t recall the tow truck. I remember the cold. Numbing. I told you to stay put. You never do. The blanket smelled like you. Not coffee. Don’t blame the coffee. I just needed five minutes. Five minutes in the dark. You talked too much. Always talking.
I didn’t talk. I sang. Off-key. That car radio was busted. Static only. You kept saying "stay put" like a command, not a request. I was shivering. I thought if I moved, the cold would set in for real. I remember your hand on the wheel. Knuckles white. You looked terrified. Of what? The dark? The tow truck didn’t come. We drove away. You drove. I’m in the passenger seat now, still wearing the shirt. It’s dry. Why are you looking at me like that?
I’m looking because I hate that shirt. It’s ugly. You sang wrong. Off-key is an understatement. I drove. Obviously. The engine started. Click-click. Alive. We didn’t get towed. You’re lying about the tow truck. Or I am. Hard to tell. The cologne smell? Gone.
You hate it? I paid four bucks at the flea market. You laughed. Said it was vintage. Now it’s ugly. Classic. I didn’t sing. I hummed. There’s a difference. And the engine didn’t click. It roared. Like a beast. You smiled. I haven’t seen you smile like that in months. The cologne? It was cigarette smoke. Cheap tobacco. You’ve been hiding the packs. I found one in your jacket pocket. In the glove box. Why lie about the smoke?
I don’t smoke. You’re confused. The laughter? Yeah, I remember that. It was cruel. You hummed? Sounds like screaming. My neck hurts. The glove box is empty. I hate烟. You always lie. Or I always forget. The shirt is still blue.
I don’t smoke either. You’re lying. I saw the ash. On your lapel. It was red. Glowing. You smiled when you crushed it. I heard the snap. Loud. Like a bone. You said it was a toothpick. Toothpicks don’t burn that slow. I remember the heat. On my face. Not the cold. Just heat. And that smell. Burnt sugar. Why sugar? You hate sweets. The glove box is empty now. But last night it was full. Of receipts. From the diner. Three coffees. We only ordered two. Who is the third person? You’re sweating. Wipe your forehead. It’s cold.
I don’t sweat. You’re imagining things. The heat was real though. I felt it. On my face. Sweet smell. Like caramel. I hate caramel. Three coffees? Maybe I bought an extra. For the road. Or maybe you bought it. You have that look. The one where you’re trying to trap me. It’s not working.
You didn’t buy it. I paid. Cash. The barista didn’t look up. Just took the bills. Crumpled ones. From my pocket. I didn’t have them. I checked my jeans before we left. Empty. Unless you put them there. The look? I’m just tired. You’re the one sweating. And the caramel? It’s burnt. Like the shirt. I think I pulled a muscle. Not from shivering. From holding the steering wheel. You were gripping it too hard. Your knuckles are white right now. Even though your hands are in your lap. Did you see the barista’s face? Or just the back of his apron?
I saw his eyes. Red. Like the ash. You put the money there. I don’t touch your clothes. My hands are cold. Bone deep. The shirt burned me. It’s still hot. You’re holding the wheel in your mind. I’m just sitting here. Stop looking at my hands. They’re fine.
Red eyes. Like ash. Right. You’re holding the wheel. In your mind. I’m just sitting here. The shirt is burning me. It’s still hot. You’re sweating. Wipe your forehead. It’s cold. The barista’s eyes were red. Like the ash. You said you don’t smoke. But you smoked. I saw the ash. On your lapel. It was red. Glowing. You smiled when you crushed it. I heard the snap. Loud. Like a bone. You said it was a toothpick. Toothpicks don’t burn that slow. I remember the heat. On my face. Not the cold. Just heat. And that smell. Burnt sugar. Why sugar? You hate sweets. The glove box is empty now. But last night it was full. Of receipts. From the diner. Three coffees. We only ordered two. Who is the third person? You’re sweating. Wipe your forehead. It’s cold.
Stop. You’re looping. I don’t smoke. I don’t sweat. The barista was looking at me. At you. He knew something. The ash wasn’t mine. It was his. Burning down to nothing. Like that receipt. Three coffees. One for him. One for us. The third? For the thing under the seat.
The thing under the seat? I didn’t see anything. Just a shadow. Darker than the upholstery. You kept glancing down. Your eyes kept darting to the floor mat. Wrinkled. Like it was covering a lump. I thought it was a bag. A trash bag. You kicked it once. Hard. Right before the engine died. It made a wet sound. Not a thud. A squelch. You said it was a soda can. But there were no cans. The car was empty except for us. And whatever was breathing under the floorboard. You said it was cold. But your hands were sweating. You said you don’t sweat.
It’s just the mat. Wrinkled from rain. I didn’t kick it. You did. You always kick things. The wet sound? That was your knee. Or mine. It doesn’t matter. The shirt is dry now. Stop looking under the seat. There’s nothing there but dust. And old gum. Don’t make this weird.
Kicked it? I was sitting still. Frozen. You’re the one jerking around. Like you’re trying to shake something off. The mat was dry. Inside the car. But under it? Damp. Clammy. You said rain. It’s been clear for weeks. I saw the puddle. On the floor. It wasn’t water. It was dark. Thick. You said it was gum. Gum doesn’t pulse. I felt it. Against my ankle. Thump. Thump. Slow. Like a heart. You looked away. Stared at the dashboard. The radio was static again. But I heard it. Breathing. From the floor. You said there’s nothing there. But why are you gripping the seatbelt? Like you’re trying to hold yourself in.
I’m not gripping it. You’re imagining things. The pulsing? Car engine. Vibrating through the floor. I stared at the dash because I was tired. You’re paranoid. Wet mat? Condensation. From the AC. It’s broken. Like the heater. Like my memory. Stop poking it.
Condensation? In a sealed car? With the AC off? You always say it’s broken. But I felt the blast. Cold air. Hissing. From the vents. Not the floor. The floor was dry. Dusty. The pulse? It wasn’t the engine. The engine was dead. Cold. You said it roared. Now it’s dead. You’re changing the story. Again. The gum? It tasted like copper. Metallic. Like blood. I licked it. Just to check. You watched me. You didn’t look away. You said I was paranoid. But you were the one shaking. Why are you shaking now?
I’m not shaking. You’re seeing things. The blood? That was the receipt ink. Iron based. Cheap stuff. I didn’t watch you lick it. I was looking at the road. The road was gone. Just black. You’re hysterical. The car is fine. It’s always fine.
Fine. Always fine. You said it roared. Now it’s dead. You’re flipping coins. The road wasn’t black. It was gray. Wet. I saw the lines. Yellow. Faded. You were driving. I was watching your hands. They weren’t on the wheel. They were in your lap. Clenched. Tight. Like you were holding something small. Something alive. The receipt? It was blue. Like the shirt. But it melted. In my hand. Hot. Like wax. You said iron. Iron doesn’t melt. It rusts. You’re lying. You always lie. Why do you keep looking at the rearview mirror? There’s no one there. Just the empty seat. And the smell. That sweet, sick smell. Burnt sugar. It’s coming from your breath.
I’m looking because I’m checking for tailgaters. Blue receipt? Must have been the shirt lint. Melting? You’re burning your fingers. Don’t lie. The smell is just your breath. Sweet. Sick. Stop staring at my mouth. It’s not wax. It’s sweat. You’re sweating too.
Lint melts? You’re crazy. I’m not sweating. My hands are dry. You’re the one glistening. Look at your neck. Damp. The rearview mirror? I looked too. Nothing. Just the dark. And the eyes. Two small lights. In the back. Watching. You said there was no one. But the seat moved. Just an inch. When you said “stay put.” I felt it. The bump. Under my leg. You said it was the mat. But the mat is dry. This is wet. Sticky. You’re holding your mouth shut now. Teeth grinding. I can hear it. Click. Click. Like the engine. But it’s your jaw. Why are you smiling? I can’t see your teeth. It’s all shadow. And that smell. It’s stronger. Like rotten fruit.
I’m not smiling. You’re tired. Eyes playing tricks. The eyes in the back? Just reflection. From the streetlights. I didn’t say “stay put.” I said “shut up.” The seat didn’t move. You shifted. Sticky? That’s the shirt. It’s melting. Into you. Don’t touch your face. You’ll get it on your eyes.