The argument that had started before they left the house – before, even, they had learned that they would have to leave the house at all – continued as they drove. Jacob gripped the steering wheel with white knuckled hands, channelling his anger into the car instead of out at his wife, Barbara.
Barbara sat next to him, seething silently, her own hand wrapped together, her own knuckles just as white as her husband’s. One would soon break the deadlock, but neither wanted to be the first. The air was heavy with upset.
Jacob broke first. “You still not speaking...
The open road was an open mouth. The dust rose in hissing strands. The sun berated us from every angle and the A/C was spewing out its soul. They called this Hell's Highway.
It was barren, filled only with the amber hues of fatigue and discomfort. We drove onward in silence, as if the merest hint of conversation would cause our cargo to spontaneously combust. I didn't have the energy to admire his golden curls, the arch of his nose, the romance of his mouth. His eyes were forward. They were always facing forward.
A carcass in the road caused...