“Where are we going?” I ask you.
You don’t answer me.
I see the muscle in your cheek move as you clench your jaw, thinking, but your hands stay on the wheel and your eyes stay on the road. Silence.
You’re not OK and neither am I. No one in this car is OK.
“Maybe we should pull over and get some rest” I say, and I already know you won’t. You’ll keep driving and I will sit quietly in my growing unease as the road signs and the people and the buildings thin out, giving way to wilderness, darkness, horrors.
I wish I could take the wheel. Strap you into the passenger seat and drive us to sanctuary, play safe songs on the radio and listen to your breath growing deeper as you fall asleep.
You are two feet away from me but I can’t get to you and I wish I could.
Are you waiting for me in there or did you leave already? I wish I knew.
I wish I could switch off all the bad, yours and mine, replace it with blue skies and happy. I wish people could wish each other OK again. I wish they didn’t have to.
“Can you hear me?” I ask, and finally you look at me.
You look at me and look at me and look at me. Time stops. My heart hammers. Blood roars in my ears.
You hit the brakes; turn the car around.
“Where are we going?” I ask you.