Humor Me

Her right hand on the steering wheel tightens, the knuckles strain against the skin, turning her normally cracked and weathered pink skin, smooth and white. Her left hand wants to make a fist, to join in solidarity with the other hand. Her mind talks her down, reasoning with her that he will notice if both hands grip the wheel tightly. With just the one hand tight, some of the frustration that she feels being stuck in this car with him, in this week with him will dissipate.

“He watches my every move for signs of distress, impatience, unhappiness, reading me like jagged lines on a heart monitor looking for those flatlines. If he can recognize the change he can pump me full of 100cc of 'what’s wrong?' 'How are you doing?' 'What’s going on in there?'He doesn’t realize I’m allergic to that kind of medicine, ha,” she humorously thinks to herself, “he should’ve read my chart. Sloppy medicining.” shaking her head back and forth in a tsk, tsk fashion, she relaxes her grip on the wheel. “He’s looking at a medical mal-practice suit here, where this reconciliation is concerned.”