The Engine We Keep Running

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.