“You know, I wouldn’t have stopped you if you tried.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t stop me.”

—

Suddenly, and at once, his face slackened.

“Am I supposed to feel something?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Well, that makes it pretty hard to be sure, doesn’t it?”

—

I got up to open a window, so I could breathe easier, feel lighter.

I immediately felt better.

I think it had more to do with the lifting than the air coming in.

—

I begged her to stay, but she wouldn’t listen. She refused to turn her head toward the motion of my hands.

—

“I mean, do you still believe.”

—

The glass slid across the bar, its momentum interrupted by his palm, the contents making waves.

It triggered a thought.

This should be a celebration.

—

We just kept driving, until we realized it was a cliche.

Then we parked, uncapped our tea, and tried to recall why we started, why we left, why we just kept driving.

—

She entered his last name, speaking without looking up.

“Just one?”

—

“I guess I just don’t really think about it much anymore.”

I wouldn’t stop you if you tried.