2/23

“You passed it.” I say from the passenger seat, turning my head to stay on the turn we missed.

“Huh?” CJ says.

“You just passed it.  We’ll have to turn around.”  And I’m closing the tattered atlas of the USA.  What has masqueraded as our guide for the past few months.

CJ glances in the rear view mirror, down the forested road we’ve been navigating for the past hour.  “Nonsense,” he says, then slams on the brakes.  

I curse as the atlas catapults from my lap into the dash.  As my hands shoot to the roof and arm bar for support.  “What the hell are you doing?”

And CJ is turned.  Twisted, with an arm behind my chair, peering out the back window as he high tails it in reverse.  “I’m making amends.”  He glances at me from under the corner of his glasses and bounces his eyebrows with a smile. 

“You’re being reckless.”  I’m now fixed on the side mirror, waiting to see the inevitable car come into view.  To ram us from behind.  Put an end to our journey.

But as I’m glued to the reflection, we screech to a halt, turn right and continue forward.

“I’m being efficient.” He says.  And it’s obvious he’s satisfied.  Content in his decisions.  I must’ve missed the cigarette he placed in his mouth, but smoke is filling the car.  

“You’re being an ass.  Open your window.”

He smiles again, which only creates this sensation that all of these displays of happiness are at my expense.  That he is truly taking pleasure in my discomfort.  In my vexation.  But he lowers his window anyway and the smoke dissipates.

“Next you’re gonna tell me to fasten my seatbelt.”  

I’m looking out the window at this point.  My eyes are on the trees and lush greens of the forest.  The density of it all.  The flourishing vegetation producing this mystery and wonder the more I squint into the distance.  But his comment crawls up my spine and clamps right down into all the attention I have.

So I turn my head to him.  His unrelenting smirk.  His smoking cigarette.  His empty buckle.  

“Put your seatbelt on.”