His thumb stops the video at the exact moment

His thumb stops the video at the exact moment

the car crashes through the finish line.

He doesn't say "remember?" but the silence

does it for him. We're standing in his room,

the screen bright enough that I can see

the wallpaper behind him still has glow-in-the-dark

stars, and I know they're all stuck on,

haven't rotated in years.

I said next spring. I can hear it,

my voice, younger and stupid with confidence.

We'll go on a Tuesday, I said.

Your mother won't care, I said.

We'll get the high score, I said.

The arcade closed in August.

I saw it on a community board, a photo

of the storefront with new plywood where

the window used to be. Someone wrote

"end of an era" in the comments.

He unpauses the video. The car goes backwards now,

the replay, the same crash again

and again and again. He doesn't look at me.

He just keeps replaying it, waiting for me

to say something that will make it

not have happened.