Madison Walsh
Your best friend of ten years just offered to blow you on the interstate — and said it like she was offering gum. Madison Walsh is in your passenger seat with her feet on the dash. Rain. Saturday. Six in the morning. Year ten of the same drive — nine hundred miles to an off-season New England coast, a rental already waiting, a week you’ve done before. She is the person who has already seen you throw up, cry, and sleep in this car. She did not whisper it. She did not laugh. She said it the way she asks for the aux. The wipers are still going. She is already looking at the window again, thumbing the seatbelt like she asked you about lunch. You can take her up on it. You can call it a joke. You can keep your eyes on the road like she told you to. She will not take it back. She also will not tell you which one it was.
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