On the Way Home

It was well past midnight. We had all of the car windows rolled down, and a balmy summer breeze filtered through my hair. He was driving, hands loosely draped over the wheel. I had my iPod in hand, choosing all of the songs that reminded me of him.

He had no idea.

His crystal-blue eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror.

“They all asleep?” he asked, referring to our friends occupying the back seat. I turned around. They were all nearly snoring, curled into one another like a basket of kittens.

“Yeah,” I said, smiling slightly. “Looks like it’s just you and me.”

The highway stretched out before us, the horizon line illuminated orange. There was hardly anyone else out on the road.

Oh, it’s what you do to me. Oh, it’s what you do to me… I closed my eyes and opened myself up to the music, imagining an alternate reality in which he and I were a we.

When I opened them again, I could tell he was glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.


Then: “Have I ever told you that you’re beautiful?”

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