by Beth Brigham
We drive in silence, tension hanging heavy between us. He stares out the window as the green hills roll by, his fingers drumming against the armrest in a staccato rhythm. My jaw aches from the effort of not asking him, "What's wrong? What are you thinking?" I nibble at the hangnail on my thumb, stealing glances at him out of the corner of my eye, and pretend to concentrate on the road. The afternoon sunlight illuminates motes of dust floating through the car, its inappropriately cheerful rays doing nothing to dispel the darkness of the unspoken. Then he turns with a smile and asks, "Are we there yet?"
Beth Brigham has been published in local, regional, national and international publications. Writing keeps her sane. (Well, depending upon your definition of sane.)