We were driving through the tunnel, which seemed to go on forever, with the small rectangle of light at the end growing only slightly larger. The lights were dim, casting a dull, surreal, glow over everything inside the car.
The rain couldn’t touch the car inside the tunnel, but the air was still heavy – drenched – with the scent of renewal mixed with wet concrete.
It was wonderful.
He was driving, hands clenched over the steering wheel, eyes darting back and forth between the road, the mirror, and the speedometer. And, although I was pretending to be asleep, I could sense him glancing at me.
When I was a child, my brothers and I used to play a game when we went on family trips. Every time the car passed under an overpass or a tunnel, we would all hold our breath until the car once again broke out into daylight.
Now that I’m older, on the road with Jake, it seems as though it’s life that’s holding its breath. While we sit in this car, it seems like nothing can touch us – not even time.