(We go home without talking, though the little girl hums strange songs to herself all the while.) You drive because I can’t, but I think you’d still be driving even if I could. I try to make a list of things that only I can do, only I can offer, but can’t come up with anything. I resort to my childhood methods of passing time during a car ride, watching the inspection decal on the windshield slice by trees and imagining the hypothetical stumps left behind, watching the white painted slivers of road disappear under the dashboard and willing them to pass by to the tempo of the unrecognizable tune the little girl is still murmuring. I glance in the rear view mirror. She’s sitting stiffly in the backseat, eyes closed, fingers folded neatly between her knees.

I close my eyes too. I keep them closed as you exit off the highway, as the roads narrow and wind, as you pull into the dim garage, as you flip up the visor and it snaps loudly. You’re not being aggressive. It always shuts violently of its own accord, and I always flinch anyway. The little girl’s eyes are open now. She’s stopped humming, but she’s almost imperceptibly nodding her head as if she’s still keeping time.

Inside, I make myself a cup of tea and swallow the impulse to offer you some too. You do not like tea. I think it’s one of the only things I could make you, so I ponder the implications of this minor tragedy while I drink. The little girl curls up in silence on the cool floor of the pantry. You go upstairs. I sit at the counter, unable to move long after I’ve drained my cup.

(Line from Whereabouts by Jhumpa Lahiri)