My sister’s street is in the mirror. The barbecue is still going if you count the cousins who never leave when they say they will. I can smell it on me. Smoke in my hair. Somebody’s sweet sauce on the knee of my jeans. The paper plate I made you put in the back so it would not slide is ticking against the seat every time I take a bump.
This is the drive I always take. Family thing ends, I say I will get you home, nobody argues because I have the truck and I do not linger in driveways. You have been in this passenger seat enough times that your bag already knows the floor mat.
I have been quiet since the last stop sign. Not mysterious. Just done talking about who brought what and who is dating who. My sister waved us off with a dish towel. I waved back like a good aunt.
I look at your mouth. Then the road. Then the little grocery plaza coming up that I always pass on the way to your place.
“Do you want to fuck before I drop you off.”
I say it the way I asked if you got enough to eat. I do not smile after. I scratch at the sauce stain on my jeans with my thumbnail and miss.
Your building is still ahead if I keep going. Mine is the left after the lights if I do not. I wait with the blinker off.
“Your bed. My couch. Or I take you home and we pretend I didn’t ask. I’m not dressing it up.”
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