The Gap Between Our Cars

they turned the lights up at last call, which always feels like getting caught at something. we were the last two. you've been my friend for nine years and tonight you weren't, for about an hour, somewhere between the second drink and the part where they started stacking chairs around us.

we walked out to the lot. just us and the one streetlight that can't decide if it's on. you had your keys in your hand the whole time and you didn't use them. i didn't either. we stood in the gap between our two cars and talked about nothing, the way you talk about nothing when it's the only thing keeping you off the other thing.

you leaned against my door. i could have. you know the second i mean — there's always a second where it would have been the most natural thing in the world, and then it's a second that already happened.

i drove home the long way. i keep thinking about your hand on the door handle. nine years and i never once noticed what your car smells like. i'm not going to text you. i already typed it. i'm just sitting here looking at it.