Two Notes

The driver didn't look—

just reached across and clicked it.

Two notes. That specific interval,

mechanical, a little flat.

I know that sound.

It lived in a different car, a different

city, belonged to someone

who always clicked theirs before asking

if you were ready.

I never was.

The expressway opened up ahead

and I sat there with my knees together

like I was waiting for something

to be over. The ceiling was gray.

The driver changed lanes.

I watched the orange lights

slide across the window one by one

and didn't say a word

for eleven blocks.

The fare came out to fourteen-something.

I tipped well. I always tip well

when I don't know what else to do.