Open by returning to a subject you dropped an hour ago. Push off from this if it helps: escalators.

Oh god. Don’t start. I spent all morning staring at that curved railing in the lobby and thinking about gravity. It’s not stairs. It’s a machine. A conveyor belt with teeth. But you? You’re convinced it’s a legal loophole. Like if you fall, the city can’t sue because technically you’re on a flight of steps. I told you that’s insane. You just smirked. I’m still annoyed. We missed the exit for the gas station because you were lecturing me about liability insurance. I hate escalators. They hum. It’s a low, electric moan. Makes me want to scream. Let’s pick different music. This playlist is making me cry.

Resting face, sure. Whatever. You were looking smug. Anyway, the GPS lady doesn’t listen. She just chirps louder. It’s aggressive navigation. I’m not arguing, I’m negotiating. With air. And satellites. Which are obviously just circles of fire.

You say the music’s fine. It’s not. It’s tinny. Like old radio plays from a basement. And I’m not the one driving, you’re the one behind the wheel, so you don’t get to psychoanalyze my relationship with minor keys. I’m just tired. My neck hurts. The seat is hot. Pass me the water, the bottle that’s already open. No, the other one. The one with the cap.

Fresno? That was ages ago. I’m not bending down. My lower back is screaming. It’s that stiff chair at the office. Beige. The one that looks like it was purchased by committee. You’d hate it.

And you slammed the door? I left it open. You pulled it shut with your hip. Classic Ana.

Anyway, the cap bottle is a geometry problem I don’t want to solve. Kick it closer? Or just leave it. I’m parched but also too tired to drink. Irony. You always do this. Take charge so I can do nothing. It’s comfortable, really. Until the song changes. Now it’s twelve-tone. No melody. Just... noise.

Why are we listening to noise?

Your phone. Right. I handed it to you. You took it with that look. The one that says I’m in control, Jo.

Seventy. Fine. Keep your eyes on the white lines. I’m just saying, the composer meant for you to feel something. Instead, you’re thinking about the cap bottle. It’s tragic.

You always take the wheel. Literally. Metaphorically. Even when I’m driving. Especially when I’m driving. It’s exhausting. I just want to listen to the hum. The real hum. The tires on asphalt. Not this digital screech.

Did I slam the door? Or did you? I can’t remember. Memory’s slippery. Like oil. Or regret.

Pass the cap bottle. Please. I’ll let you pick the next track. A compromise. A surrender.

Truce. Fine. I’ll pick. Something with a bass line. Something that doesn’t sound like a dying cat.

You used up your opinions? That’s convenient. Usually, you hoard them like candy. I’m suspicious. Are you plotting something? That look again. The resting smirk. I’m not falling for it.

Here. This one. It’s got a rhythm. You can tap your foot without looking. Just a little. Maybe. If you’re careful.

I’m going to reach for the bottle. Don’t watch me. I’m good at this. Driving is overrated anyway. The road is just a gray ribbon. We’re not moving. We’re just… waiting. For the exit. Or the end. Whichever comes first.

Does this song make you feel anything? Or is it just noise?

Details. Of course. Because the color of the road matters more than the fact that I might have killed someone in Fresno. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe I just opened it too wide and the hinge screamed. You’re holding that look. That calm, driving look. You think I’m terrified of the truth. I’m not. I’m terrified of the silence after the engine cuts.

And it’s not brown. It’s gray. Like bone. Like dust. Don’t correct me on the dirt. It’s just… tired.

I’m not stalling. I’m letting the bass drop. Listen. It’s coming. That low thump. Like a heart skipping. Or stopping.

You never did tell me if you believe the escalator thing. Or if you’re just waiting for me to crack. I won’t. I’m fine here. With the noise. With the brown road. With your judgment. It’s warm, in a way. Like a heavy blanket. Or a noose.

Pick a song, Ana. Before I start crying. Or laughing. Hard to tell the difference at seventy.

"Scared of stairs." That’s the most insane thing you’ve said all day. Stairs don’t have teeth. Stairs don’t move when you touch them. You’re anthropomorphizing architecture because you’re bored.

Fine. I’ll drink. I’ll drink the whole bottle if it makes you stop looking at me like I’m a broken windshield. I’m not dramatic. I’m just… low on fuel. The screen is dimming. The bass is rattling my ribs.

It’s not brown. It’s gray. Like the sky in November. Like the coffee I spilled this morning. Red. Spilled on the white shirt. Can’t wash it out. Stains. That’s the escalator thing, Ana. You slide in, you slide out, and there’s a mark left. A smudge.

I’m drinking now. Hold on. The cap is stuck. Your fault. You bought the wrong brand. Cheap plastic. It warps in the heat. Like me.

Pass me the napkins. The dry ones. I’m sweating. Or crying. Same thing, really.

Weak. From the road. Sure. I’m weak from the beige chair. From the hum. From you.

Glovebox. Right. The black hole of our dashboard. Under the map. The one with the coffee ring on it. I’ll open it. Carefully. Without crashing. Because you’re driving. You’re always driving.

I’m not mad at the road. I’m mad at the fact that it doesn’t change. It just stretches. Endless, dirty brown. Like our conversation. Like that water bottle cap.

I’m reaching. Don’t look. I’m clumsy. Clumsy because I’m tired. Tired because you won’t tell me the good news. What is it? Did you get the job? Did he call? Did you win the lottery? Just say it. Before I drown in this dusty highway.

The glovebox is stuck. Of course it is. Everything is stuck.

Fine. One crisis. The cap. It’s mocking me. Plastic teeth biting into flesh. I’m twisting. Hard. My knuckles are white. Look at them. White. Like the lines on the road. Like the napkins I can’t reach.

You’re watching. I know you are. Through the peripheral vision. The sideways glance. Judging my grip strength. My stamina. My sanity.

It’s loose. I think. No. It’s stuck again. Did I tighten it? Or did I loosen it? I don’t know anymore. The world is spinning. Just a little. Like a centrifuge. Separating the serious from the trivial. The water from the thirst.

You’re not going to let me have this. You never do. You always make it harder. Why? Because it’s easier? No. Because you like watching me struggle. Like a scientist. Observing the rat in the maze. The rat is thirsty. The rat wants water. The rat is tired.

Pass the bottle. I can’t do it alone.

Light. Up ahead. A red dot in the distance. Like an eye. Watching us.

I didn’t grab your arm. I brushed it. Accidentally. Skin on skin. Warm. Real. Not like the plastic cap. Not like the gray road.

You’re right. A ditch. That’s where we’d end up. Not a maze. Just a hole. Filled with dirt. And silence.

I’m letting go. Slowly. My fingers are slippery. From sweat? From the bottle? From the fear?

The light is getting closer. Yellow? Red? It’s blinking. Or is it just my eyes? Tired eyes. Red eyes.

I’m quiet now. Too quiet. The music is gone. Or maybe I just stopped hearing it. The engine hums. The tires roll. The world moves.

I’m thirsty. So thirsty.

Just drive, Ana. Please. Just drive.

Tap water. That’s the insult. After all this drama, it’s just municipal sludge. I’d rather drink the dust from the glovebox map.

You always minimize it. Nobody’s dying. As if I’m fragile. As if I haven’t held my breath for thirty seconds trying to get a cap off without looking like an idiot.

I’m breathing. See? In. Out. The chest expands. The ribs creak. Like the old house. Like the chair.

The light is red. We stop. The engine idles. A low, rhythmic purr. Unlike the silence between us.

You have the bottle now. Your hands are steady. Mine are shaking. Maybe it’s the caffeine. Maybe it’s the fear of the light. Of stopping. Of being still.

Give it here. I’ll take it. I’ll drink. I’ll pretend it’s wine. I’ll pretend we’re at a bar, not in a car, on a highway, fleeing something.

Is it tap water? Or did you switch it? Did you plan this? You’re always planning.

Pass it. Before the light turns green. Before I have to admit I’m scared of the dark.