She watches
Google maps, she
eyes the gas gauge.
She pictures them
along the highway
stranded with
the luggage.
He finds the
local NPR again.
He knows there
are no exits
after Freeman,
not for miles.
It slips below
the quarter mark.
“Remember when”
he says --
she stares
into the dashboard,
lips tight,
gritting --
“we’d listen
every Sunday
to this show?
We’d drive
the afternoons
and laugh.”
His watch has
left a line
around his
wrist from all
the sun. The
yard is lovely
in the spring.
She pictures
them along the
highway, stranded.
They did laugh,
didn't they?
The sky expands
as they near
the ocean.
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