Orange digital letters flash above the terminal, granting permission to pass through the toll booth. Brake-lights burn an angry red. A haze of heatwaves reflects off the scorching asphalt, blurry, a warped desert mirage.
Texas, I yell. You scream Ohio. Your grip on my hand tightens – excitement at noticing a truck from Louisiana. I glance at our interlocked fingers resting on the center console. I notice the thin layer of dirt underneath your fingernails. I wonder if it’s from your succulents or the orchid pots. Mesmerized by your ability to hold life in your hands, I squeeze a little tighter, too.
Through the white noise, I’m startled by a familiar bark.
New York, I say, as I stare through their tinted windows at the man whose bitter words vibrate my tires, his hands off the wheel, clenched in fists, raised at the woman in the passenger seat. The tips of her ears are a warm pink, eyes wet and swollen. I wish I could tell her everything her body language reveals, her movements through the glass a visage of a past-self. The muffled sounds travel down my throat and into my stomach, slicing my gut, reopening a long-forgotten wound. You release your hand to wipe a tear from my cheek – a rough thumb, the soft flutter of butterfly wings deep inside.
I inch the car forward. Above us, there’s a cloud that looks like an elephant. You see a dinosaur instead. I smile. You smile.
We keep playing.
Holly Hagman is a teacher and writer from a small town in New Jersey. She enjoys cooking, collecting coffee mugs, and spending time with her cats. Her work can be viewed on her website, http://www.hollyhagmanwrites.com/