Passenger

My forehead was against the window,

the glass cold in the specific way

that only happens late on a highway

when no one has said anything in forty minutes.

He turned the radio on.

Then off.

The silence after was a different shape

than the silence before it.

I'd been counting the white lane dashes—

not for any reason, just to have a task—

and then a semi came through going the other way

and the whole car shuddered

and I lost my place

and couldn't start again.

The truck's side mirror caught our headlights

for one second. Two red points shrinking.

Somewhere past the state line he said

I think it was good you came.

I said yeah.

I kept my forehead on the glass.