The engine had been off
for a while, but Daniel
didn't move. The garage
light above him buzzed -
the old one, the one
he'd meant to replace
all summer. Somewhere
upstairs, his phone lit
up with messages he'd
answer later.
Five minutes. That was
the whole ritual: five
minutes between the person
everyone needed and the
person nobody could ask.
In the car there was no
inbox, no small talk,
no version of him that
owed anyone anything.
Just the buzz of the
light and the cold
steering wheel and, once
in a while, the strange
relief of being nothing
to anyone.
Tonight the five minutes
ran long. Ten. Fifteen.
He watched a moth circle
the bulb, and for no
reason he understood, he
felt his eyes sting. Not
sadness, exactly - more
like the first time he'd
admitted the quiet was
heavy.
He almost opened the
door. Instead he sat,
and let the garage keep
his secret a little
longer.
When he finally walked
in, his daughter asked
what took him so long.
He said, "Traffic."
She believed him.