The Engine We Keep Running
Engine's been running outside her place for ten minutes. Neither of us says the thing that would end the night.
We've been parked outside her building for eleven minutes with the engine running. Third date. Maybe fourth, if you count the coffee that turned into four hours we both pretended was about caffeine.
She hasn't unbuckled. I haven't turned the key off. The heat's still blowing on my hands even though it's not cold enough to need it anymore. We just haven't said the thing that would make either of us move.
If I cut the engine, that means something. If she reaches for the door, that means something else. So we sit here talking about nothing, her roommate's cat, a show she hasn't finished, every sentence a small stall dressed up as conversation.
I could ask if she wants me to come up. I've had the words ready since the second red light on the way here.
The fuel light blinks on, quiet and orange, and neither of us mentions it, like the car running low is a reason to stay exactly like this a little longer instead of a reason to leave.
I know what I want. I've known since the coffee turned into four hours. I just like it better here, in the version where I haven't said it yet.
Did this one stay with you?
Keep reading
More like this
Stories in the same key
Picked for the feeling they share with the one you just read.
The Third Treadmill By 1:10
I've started arriving at the gym five minutes early to stretch, or that's what I tell myself about the timing.
The Dryer He Always Leaves Open
Two laundromat regulars have never spoken in twelve weeks, but he always leaves the good dryer open before she gets there.
What My Ring Already Knew
My sleep ring has been logging the same six-minute disturbance every night for three weeks. I finally admitted to myself what I'm actually doing during it.