The memory of walking out of the building with you holds strong in my mind. Across the parking lot to your car. Then, there we sat between two windows. The drivers window to our left, the passengers window to our right. I was sitting next to you. A place I always wanted to stay. A place I never wanted to leave.
One point six miles; the distance we had to travel. I wanted that to be the longest one point six miles of my life.
I was not driving. I did not need to watch the road. I wanted to watch you. Take in every detail of our trip. What song was on the radio? I look around. What has found a home on the floor of your car? You can learn a lot about a person by what they leave in their car. Do I remember any of that? No. What I do remember is you. The purple shirt you wore. A color you wore a lot. The grey pants that hugged you just right. The way you slipped on your sunglasses and rolled down your window. One of the windows that created the space we shared. The space I longed to be. The space I longed to be because it was next to you.
Cars are like journals. With spoken word people tell you everything within them. Or absolute silence sits hauntingly still. Words are written on those walls. Absorbed by anything and all within. Stories find their home. Memories created.
One point six miles was not enough. I needed more time between those two windows.