Idiomatic

He is sitting in a car, the windows rolled down, the humidity pouring in, sweat pooling on his back. Mostly he tries not to think, keep his eyes on the road ahead. It’s these long glass moments, that’s where he has no control.

So many yesterdays spent lying against each other, impressing their silhouettes against their nascent forms, shuddering and trembling at the faintest touch. She says, hand clasped in his, I am not just a thing, an idea someone had. We are possibilities, infinities.

The moments shiver as they pass and sometimes hold themselves still. In memory they are glacial. The world looks ready to crumble, to slip into oblivion, without questions, without answers, as incandescent as her smiling face.

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