The Drive Home

We sat in the car until the engine ticked itself cold.

The garage door was a white, blank wall

covered in spiderwebs and dirt.

He didn't reach for the keys.

His thumbs were hooked over the wheel,

pressed so hard the knuckles went white,

those thick, work-worn pads of skin

just holding onto the leather like it was a ledge.

I wanted to ask if he was hungry,

but the quiet was a physical thing in the seat,

sitting between us like a third passenger

who wasn't ready to get out.