Disengaged

The engine is finally still, the vibration

draining out of the steering wheel and into my wrists.

The silence is a physical weight, a thick wool

filling the cabin until the glass starts to fog.

He doesn't say a word, just reaches down

and presses the red plastic square with a thumb

that leaves a smear of oil from his lunch.

The mechanism is sluggish, the spring tired,

but then it lets go with a dry, metallic snap.

The webbing zips back against the B-pillar,

a sudden, violent retraction that makes me blink.

It’s the most honest thing we’ve said in forty miles—

that finality of being unlatched,

the hardware giving up on holding us together.