From SF MoMA
Waiting. The window rolled down a little bit farther than really necessary. Open to the cold night air. Open to allow the ashes to fall outside the car, and for smoky breath to escape the confines of the small hatchback.
She pushes her hair back with the back of her thumb. Again. Still waiting. With her hair behind her ear, she twists her neck slightly to look back. Eyes push to the edge of their range as they strain against the darkness.
He’ll be there eventually. Until then, waiting.