The Hem of My Shirt

The text said not coming, sorry.

I put my phone down

on the passenger seat

and sat there.

The parking lot was doing that shimmer

off the asphalt.

I could feel the heat of the seat

through my jeans.

Twenty minutes.

Then I put my hands on the wheel to leave

and had to pull them back.

Too hot to grip.

I used the hem of my shirt —

the fabric against the textured plastic,

my hands underneath it,

driving like that.

I was already furious.

The wheel made it worse

and also, somehow, absurd,

and I did not laugh.

I just drove.

The AC running

but not quite catching.

The seat still radiating

the whole way home.