Before I Got Out

The thermometer said 103.

I'd driven forty minutes

to drop off papers he could have emailed.

When I touched the wheel to park

it burned enough that I pulled both hands back—

and sat there after with my palms

face-up on my thighs

like I was waiting to be handed something.

The wheel kept radiating in the rearview.

The car ticked.

Inside, he'd be at the table or not.

Coffee made or not.

He'd ask about the drive

or say something else

or nothing.

I sat there four minutes, maybe five.

Hands in my lap, face-up.

The heat still in them.

Then I got out.