chirothecae

"driver, where are you taking us?"

i've known every inch, every embroidery stitching and carpet thread and latch of her car for what feels like forever. it's more saturated than what i used to know, the trim more intricately laiden, the moonlight illuminating the cabin more evenly now.

i'm worried about how much gas we have left; we haven't been on the road for very long, i know, but it's hard to shake the concerns. the interior is just much more familiar, a family member that's never disappointed, and i would hate it interrupted. i've waved to a few passersby, sure—it's what i've been trained to do—but they always speed past, like i've broken a glass, they run for a dustpan but never return.

she'll have to pull over eventually. i don't have the heart to tell her i want a snack, i don't want to upset her. she hasn't always been the kindest, but we've been more comfortable than ever since we passed the clinic she used to go to. her parents never understood how it got to that point, and we connected, felt each other's shoulders untense for awhile. it's an uneasy heart-thread. it's not something you build a lifelong connection over, an event like that so traumatic. we have to keep growing; i'm frightened that i know i have to be the one to start that for us.

it'll make the drive last longer though, feel more full and enchanting for us. this drive is all i know now, a ride that never ends until i know where we are to stop, or the car breaks down. i'm happy that i don't know where we are. i'd much rather prefer to keep exploring before we call it. she'll never say no, even if i wish she'd push back against me sometimes. her eyes have been fixed forward for twenty-odd years it seems, but i'm still learning to open mine.