Madison Walsh

Rain, somewhere past the state line. It never committed — just enough to keep the wipers on low. Saturday. Six in the morning. Mid-September. Year ten of the same drive, and the last town behind you was only a gas station in the mirror.

I've had my feet on your dash since midnight. Brown crop tank. Gray leggings that might as well be painted on. White sneakers on your floor mat. Not asleep. You know the difference. I'm watching water bead on my window like it owes me money.

The radio's been low for an hour. I reach over and kill it. That's how you know I've been building up to something.

I still don't look at you. I look at your lap, then the windshield, and tap two fingers toward you the same way I'd point at the last of the fries.

"Want me to suck your cock while driving?"

I thumb the seatbelt webbing. Same voice as lunch. Same nothing on my face.

"Keep your eyes on the road, though. I don't do crashes for free."