Open by returning to a subject you dropped an hour ago. Push off from this if it helps: the sound of a distant lawnmower.

That sound, that lawnmower—it’s aggressive, isn't it? It’s the sound of someone trying to exert control over nature in a pathetic way. People obsess over the height of a blade of grass as if the world depends on it. It’s a specific kind of suburban desperation. It reminds me of that guy back on the block, the one who trimmed his hedges with a ruler. Absolute madness. Anyway, the seat in this car is vibrating in a way. My back has been seizing up since we passed that exit, but I told you, I'm fine. It's just a dull ache. Don't look at me like that. I can handle the wheel. Just stop shifting so much.

Fine, turn it off. The silence is better than that static anyway. And for your information, I'm not barking, I'm observing the absurdity of the situation. You think you're such the expert on comfort because you haven't complained once in twenty minutes? Please. I should have known better. I'm not twitching, I'm just reacting to the heat coming off the asphalt. It's suffocating. Everything in this state feels just so hollowed-out. But hey, if you want to sit in silence, be my for it. We still have hours of this grey landscape left. Just sit there and stop staring at the dashboard like it's going to give you a shortcut.

Oh, excuse me? You're the one cramped in the passenger seat while I'm doing all the work. If I move my leg, I lose my grip, but that's your problem. The car is vibrating because the road is trash, Rafe, not because I'm performing for you. I'm sweating because it's eighty degrees in here and the AC is blowing lukewarm air. It's not pathetic, it's biology. You sit there like a statue, judging every movement and physical discomfort like you're the only one who notices the world is falling apart. I decied to be miserable. Go ahead, keep scaring at the horizon. The exit won't get any closer just because you're being moody.

My knuckles are white because I'm trying to keep this hunk of metal on the road while you play deconstruct with my personality. The AC is a joke if you think that faint breeze counts as cooling. It's not for attention; I don't even have the energy to perform for you right now. You're so convinced that you're the only rational person in the car, it's exhausting. It's the same old thing—I make a point, you're wrong, and you're sitting there nursing a grudge against a wasted vibration. My back is probably fine, despite the obvious lumbar depression. I'm driving, aren't I? Just don't tell me how to hold the wheel when you aren't the one actually carrying the weight of this trip.

Then close your eyes. If my voice is so unbearable, tune it out. I'm leaning because my spine is screaming at me, but apparently, that's just an inconvenience for your ears. It's always about your comfort, isn't it? I'm looking at the road. I'm staring at the cracks and the endless grey lines that you've managed to make into a death march. You think you're so above this, but you're just too bored beyond the effort of being a human being. Fine. If you want silence, you have it. Enjoy the sound of the tires scraping against this miserable pavement. It's poetic, really. Just perfect for a day like this.

Dramatic. Right. Because expressing physical pain is just a performance for your benefit. Go ahead, sleep. It's not like you've been contributing anything but criticism anyway. I'm in the lane, aren't I? Just don't expect me to wake you up gently when the car hits a pothole. It's just asphalt, you say, so sure of yourself. You people love this casual indifference to everything. I think there's poetry in the fact that we're sitting for hours being treated like a nuisance because I'm not a silent statue. Close your eyes, Rafe. I'll be over here, keeping us upright while you dream of a world where people don't have nerves.

The mirror shows me exactly what I want to see: more road, more nothingness. You think it's exhausting to listen? Try being in a metal box with someone who treats every bit of human reaction like a malfunction. I'm watching the mirror, I'm watching the cars behind us, I'm watching the world die one mile at a time. If that ruins your perfect, silent void, then that's your own problem. My nerves aren't an exhibit for your convenience. They're just the thing keeping me awake while you hibernate. Just don't you dare complain when the temperature spikes and I have to roll the window down because I'm tired of pretending to be nice and quiet.

"Just a drive." As if life could be reduced to a point A to point B. You're so obsessed with the destination that you ignore the actual misery. I am focusing on the lines, I'm staring at them until my eyes bleed to keep us from drifting into the ditch. Fine, roll the window down. Let the wind drown out the thoughts. It's better than this heavy silence of yours. You're done? We're always done eventually, yet I'm still the one with my hands on the wheel and a back that feels like it's being put through a vice. Sit there in your silence. I'll just be here, overthinking everything because someone has to.

The seat is the problem? Of course. It's always the equipment, never the person sitting in it. And now the wind is cold. Great. Five minutes ago we were suffocating and now we are freezing. I can't stop moving because my body is trying to find a position that doesn't feel like a lightning strike to the lumbar, but please, tell me how to be perfectly still. I'll just freeze in place if it makes you less uncomfortable. You're so focused on the noise and the cold and the seat seat that you're missing the point of everything. Just wrap your jacket around yourself and be quiet. I'm not taking comment on the temperature.

I'm not chattering for no reason, I'm shivering because the air just dropped ten degrees and you're too stubborn to put on a jacket. You love this, being the martyr. The road is opening up, so what? Now we have more space to be miserable in? I'm driving. I've been driving since we left that cramped apartment of yours, and I haven't stopped once to stroke your ego. My teeth are clicking because I'm cold, not because I'm performing a rhythm for your entertainment. If the noise bothers you so much, plug your ears. I have three hundred miles of this to go, and my hands are just beginning to go numb on the steering wheel.

Sleep then. It’s clearly what you’ve been wanting to do since we hit the state line. I’ll just be here, staring at the white lines until they blur into a solid ribbon while you drift off. Three hundred miles is easy when you're not the one keeping your eyes open to make sure we don't end up in a cliffside. Don't expect me to wake you up when we finally get somewhere that matters. I'll just leave you there in the cold if you remember how much you hate the sound of me. The road is still there, my back is still pulsing, and I'm still driving. Enjoy your nap.

I'm not drifting. I'm centered to the inch, but you'd find a fault if I were driving on the moon. The bridge is coming up, I see the concrete and the steel, it's as ugly as everything else. You want me to shut up? Fine. I'll give you the silence you're so craving. It's not like I'm tired of being the only one actually present in this car. You're resting your eyes? Right. You're always resting something else. Just cross the bridge. I'll be over here, keeping my eyes wide open and my mouth shut while you pretend you aren't vibrating with irritation.

You're tired? We're all tired. But I'm the one who has to navigate the merge while you sit there deconstructing everything. The concrete is just concrete until it's the ground under our feet. I'm watching the merge, I'm watching the cars that cut us off because people are too busy to pay attention. If you're not irritated, then why are you radiating tension like a heater? It's exhausting. Just sit back and let me drive. Whatever makes you feel better, maybe. I'm still keeping us straight, like I promised, but don't expect me to be happy about the silence or the cold or the road.