The passenger you never invited

Your car is the smallest room you own, and right now it's the loudest. Doors shut. Nobody watching. One hand free by design. Your body could drive this route half asleep, and it remembers exactly where the reach used to happen. The tug started before the engine did. That's no weakness. That's a room with a long memory.

The cigarette rode along on every drive and called itself company. It didn't shorten a single mile. It didn't turn one light green. You were driving alone the whole time, and paying for a passenger.

Give that free hand a job before you turn the key. Fill the cup holder. Sunflower seeds, pretzels, a pack of gum, anything with a crunch. Then both hands on the wheel. At the long light, crunch. At the turn where you always reached, crunch. Your hand is spoken for, and so is your mouth.

Before you shift into gear, give God the next few miles. Hold this whole drive for me. Then go. Somewhere on the route the old signal will fire. Let it fire. Keep crunching and pull in at the other end. Turn off the engine and take one breath. You drove the whole way and it never got a seat.