We’re leaving, getting in the truck and driving back to the hotel we’ve been living in. He lights a cigarette, rolling down the window six inches to let the smoke out, and we roar out onto the road, faster than necessary for no reason at all other than to delight me, I suspect.
The radio immediately begins to play Young Folks, and so he turns it up and says, “I’m really feelin’ this song right now.” I say something soft in agreement and try not to take any of this to heart. It’s dark out here, fog just at the edges of sight, farm land rolls past with some small houses but mostly just blackened fields.
After a minute, I realize that I’m perfectly content in a way I haven’t been for a while and I continue to wonder if he’s going to say anything about what will happen next. In a few minutes, it turns out there’s a space for it, a space for the asking. I wait, and he does not say anything.