Let me drive. You’re tired. Remember that roundabout on 4th? The one with the seven lanes and the crazy bus driver? I pulled over just to scream into the cup holder. My boss is going to kill me for being late, but honestly, looking at you, I’d rather explain that than watch you fall asleep at the wheel. Hand me the keys. Please.
I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with control, Cass. That roundabout was a disaster, yes, but it wasn’t just the bus driver. It was the way the light synced up, or didn’t, and how everyone just assumed the right of way like they’d read the same manual. I drove us there. I’ll drive us back. You talk about screaming into cup holders like it’s some kind of release valve, but I’d rather you just sit in the back and annoy someone else for five minutes. Besides, I have that presentation on Tuesday. The one with the spreadsheet that doesn’t balance because everyone lied about the quarterly projections. If I’m exhausted, I’m at least exhausted competently. Give me the keys. Or don’t. I’m taking them anyway. It’s not a negotiation.
Fine. Take the keys. You always want to be the martyr for the spreadsheet anyway. I just don’t want you passing out because you’re too proud to admit the caffeine hit its limit three hours ago. But if you start humming that terrible conference room jingle, I’m pulling over. Again. And Tess? If that presentation implodes, just blame the bus driver. I’ll cover for you with HR. They like me. You know, mostly because I bring donuts. Go. Sleep. I’m watching you.
Oh, please. Donuts are just sugar with a social agenda. And I’m not humming the jingle. That was one time, and it was involuntary, like a sneeze. You always dramatize the small stuff. It’s exhausting. Besides, I need to review the slides one more time. The slide on page fourteen is wrong. It’s always page fourteen. I can’t sleep if page fourteen is wrong. You think HR likes you because of donuts? No. They like you because you don’t ask questions. You just eat the cruller and nod. It’s a talent, I suppose. A mediocre one. But it keeps me employed. So stay quiet. Actually, don’t. Talk. Tell me about your weekend. Or don’t. I don’t care. Just… keep the radio off. The silence is louder than the engine sometimes. And if I fall asleep, let me. I’m not asking for a nap. I’m asking for an end to the noise. Even if that noise is you.
You’re impossible. Fine. I’ll talk. Last weekend I went to that hardware store on Elm. Bought a single, rusted hinge. Didn’t need it. Just... held it in my pocket all evening. My roommate, Dave, asked if I was building a ship. I didn’t answer. He stopped asking. It’s quieter that way. So yes, I’m here. Radio’s off. I’m not humming. Just breathe. I’ve got you. If you fall asleep, I’ll pretend I didn’t see you drool on my shirt. Deal?
Dave. That guy’s a void. Empty where a friend should be. A rusted hinge? You’re romanticizing decay now. That’s not progress, Cass. That’s just… settling. I remember when you used to buy whole boxes of hinges. Or was that just paint? I can’t recall. Memory’s slippery. Like oil on the driveway. You think you’ve got me? Please. I’ve got the wheel. And the weight of a spreadsheet that’s currently eating my soul. Drooling is a risk I’m willing to take. On your shirt, too. It’s an old one. The stain will just blend in. A testament to corporate warfare. See? I’m making it a narrative. You’re just sitting there, holding a hinge like it’s a talisman. Go on. Talk about the hinge. Or don’t. I’m closing my eyes. If I snore, slap me. Gently. I have a headache behind my left eye. The one that throbs when I think about Tuesday.
Dave’s a void? Maybe. But he doesn’t judge me for buying rusty metal. The hinge wasn’t for a ship. It was for the shed. The one that’s been rotting since 2019. I keep meaning to fix it. I don’t. There’s comfort in the broken things, Tess. Things that don’t lie about quarterly projections. Just rust. Simple. Honest. I’ll slap you if you snore. Gently. Hard enough to wake you, soft enough to not bruise. Close your eyes. I’m here. The quiet is mine to keep. Let it wash over you. You’re safe. Even from yourself. For now.
Rotting shed. 2019. You keep that timeline locked up tight, Cass, like a museum exhibit of your own failures. Honest? Rust is just oxidation. It’s chemistry, not morality. It doesn’t care about you. It doesn’t hold you. I don’t know why you’re so enamored with things that decay when you could just buy a new hinge. Or fix the damn door. But you won’t. Because fixing requires action, and action requires energy you clearly don’t have. I’m closing my eyes. The road is a blur of streetlights and indifference. My head is heavy, like lead, or maybe just like the quarterly projections. You say I’m safe? Safe is a luxury I can’t afford. Not with Tuesday looming. Not with Dave watching. Just… don’t stop the car. If you stop, I might wake up. And if I wake up, I have to face the fact that I’m tired. And you’re still holding that hinge. It’s obscene. Really.
Obscene. Fine. I’ll toss it. Watch out, it’s rusty. There. Gone. Just like the hinges you keep demanding I fix. I’m not stopping. Never stop. The blur is better than the sharp edges anyway. Lead is heavy, Tess. Carry it. I’m holding the wheel. You hold the pain. We’re balanced now. Dave can watch all he wants. Let him stare at the void. I’m not looking at him. I’m looking at the road. And you. Sleeping. Finally. Don’t wake up. Not yet.
Balanced? That’s a pretentious word for vertigo, Cass. You’re driving, I’m asleep. There’s no balance in that, only surrender. And I didn’t ask you to hold my pain. I asked for silence. You’re still talking. Even in your head, you’re narrating. It’s exhausting. The road is just road. It doesn’t care about your shed. It doesn’t care about Dave. It’s asphalt and gravel and the occasional deer that decides to test my reflexes at forty miles per hour. I’m not sleeping. I’m resting my eyes. There’s a difference. And if you think tossing that hinge solves anything, you’re delusional. Rust always finds a way back. Into the wood. Into the joints. Into the cracks you pretend don’t exist. Keep driving. And stop looking at me. I’m not a landmark. I’m just... here. For now. Until Tuesday. Then I’m gone.
Fine. I’m looking at the road. Happy? The deer is yours to dodge. I’m just the hands on the wheel. You’re right, I’m delusional. I think if I keep driving, we outrun Tuesday. The rust stays in the ground where it belongs. In the ditch. Not in the cracks. I’m quiet now. Really quiet. Listen to the tires. Just tires. No narrative. No shed. No Dave. Just the hum. Close those eyes, Tess. Properly this time. I’ve got the wheel. You’ve got the dark. It’s a fair trade. Sleep.
Fair trade? You think this is a transaction. It’s not. It’s just… gravity. I’m closing them. The dark isn’t empty, Cass. It’s full of things I haven’t thought about in years. Like that summer in Maine. The one where we didn’t speak. Just sat on the dock and watched the water eat the light. You never mentioned it. I didn’t either. Now it’s here, in the back of my skull, louder than the engine. Listen to the tires. They’re worn. You knew that. You bought them because they were cheap. Or because you forgot. Either way, they’re singing a different song now. A higher pitch. Annoying. I hate it. Don’t look at me. Look at the line. The white line. It’s hypnotic. If I fall asleep, I might dream of spreadsheets. Or hinges. Or Dave. God, don’t let me dream of Dave. Just drive. Faster. If we get there, it’s over. If we don’t, well. At least we’re moving. And that’s something.
Maine. God, Tess. Why now? You were always quiet there. I thought you liked the silence. I didn’t speak because you weren’t speaking. I thought that was the deal. Don’t worry about Dave. He’s not in the dream. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll drive so fast the white line blurs into a solid bar. No spreadsheets. No hinges. Just the hum and the dark. You’re right. The tires are singing. I’m shifting gears. We’ll be there. And when we are, I’m making coffee. Strong. Black. Like that water in Maine. Cold. Let it wash you out. Sleep. I’m watching the line. I’ve got the fast lane. You don’t have to do anything. Just stop thinking. Please.
Maine wasn’t quiet. It was loud with the sound of nothing happening. You think silence is an absence? It’s a presence. It presses against your eardrums until you hear your own blood. I didn’t speak because I was waiting for you to break. You didn’t. You just sat there, stoic as a stone. And I hated you for it. Coffee? Black? You think caffeine fixes anything? It just makes the dread have a faster heartbeat. I’m not stopping thinking. I can’t. If I stop, I remember the heat. The humidity. The way the mosquitoes used to swarm like smoke. You’re driving too fast. The tires are humming louder. They’re screaming, Cass. Can’t you hear them? They’re begging for mercy. Or maybe they’re just tired. Like me. Or like you. About Dave. You’re right. He’s not in the dream. He’s just… there. In the periphery. A shadow. A void. I’m closing my eyes again. Not because I’m tired. But because I need to see the road through my eyelids. Red. Then black. Then red again. Faster. Please. Before the sun comes up. Before Tuesday. Before everything.