The Back Seat

The driver asked what I do.

I said spreadsheets—

a lie so small and generic that it felt true.

The meter ran. Red lights ahead.

My fractured reflection in the window,

split across the buildings,

disappeared into the city instead.

He asked again, softer.

"What kind of spreadsheets?"

I said office stuff,

and felt the particular relief

of lying to a stranger,

the way you can be anyone

in the back seat of a cab,

how you can say nothing true

and no one cares.

The meter climbed.

The red lights stayed red.

I watched myself break

across the window glass,

watched my face split

between buildings,

watched the part of me

in the back seat

become someone smaller,

someone safer,

someone who works with spreadsheets.

And it felt honest somehow,

this small lie,

this particular way

of disappearing,

this permission the back seat gave

to be false

and never have to explain.

When we got there,

the meter showed thirty-seven dollars.

I gave him forty.

He thanked me.

I thanked him.

And I carried that lie out into the world.