The Catch

The faint, sweet edge

of his cologne still hung

in the passenger space,

a ghost in the heated air.

The seat,

imprinted with his shape,

now smoothed back flat.

I pulled away from the curb,

slow, watching him shrink

in the rearview,

then just the street.

My hand found the strap,

black nylon, thin.

Across my chest,

a familiar resistance,

the buckle slid home.

A clean, sharp click.

Then the slack went out of me,

all at once,

held firm against the sudden quiet.