Evidence

Marcus's car smelled like a plan—

that factory sweetness, the chemical

impression of a life not yet run

through with itself. Identical

to every new car: aspirational,

barely touched. I drove it carefully.

Thirty minutes. Rational

about the seat position. Gave the key

back in the parking lot. Got into mine.

The receipt in the cup holder.

The coat balled on the back seat.

Something under the vents, older

than I wanted to name—not sweet

exactly, more the memory of sweet,

coffee, and under that, the years

of being in here, the slow repeat

of the same commute. The same gears.

I sat with it a full minute

before starting the engine.

Just sat in the evidence.