driver

She was driving the car. Plus she had logged hundreds of hours on her therapist’s couch. She was in control.

Except she wasn’t really feeling it: she was trapped in the car with him for too long, going on forever. And in that stale capsule of space and time, things wobbled and warped and felt backward all over again.  He interjected a running transcript of instructions and commands into the tense silence:

Turn here.

Put your blinker on.

Slow down.

Speed up.

There is a car behind you.

You are going fast.

Why are you going so slow ?

In the past, this would have flustered her, this constant repeated poking, puncturing any air of confidence she might have carried with her.  Now she had to be careful not to reach across the console and rip off his head, not even with her words, because their oldest daughter was watching them interact.

By the end of the drive, she had a blinding headache.

And two more days of the same ahead of her.

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