Car Troubles
Chloe Sherill-Howell / V Mag at UVA
Car Troubles
Your car won't start.
My socks are wet, my phone is dead, and my backpack is full of water samples and dead crayfish. I watch as you turn your key, the engine groaning softly, the Lego Batman keychain swinging gently back and forth. The parking garage is empty. The streetlights send shadows dancing over my shaking hands.
Your car won’t start. I lean my head against the headrest, sighing as I stare at the car ceiling.
You had met me outside of my lab on the steps of Clark Hall, bare arms tucked against your obnoxiously yellow shirt. Fat snowflakes decorated your lashes, and you laughed when I asked you where your jacket was. We walked toward central grounds and the parking garage. I felt your hand slip beneath my jacket, fingers tugging at my belt loops.
Your car won't start. After your third try, you stop turning the key. Silence seeps into the car; I take a deep breath in, and then out.
I had worn waders with holes in them. The icy water of the Dell soaked my socks, making the remainder of my ecology lab long and miserable. Within ten minutes the snow had begun in earnest, the flakes sending small ripples across the pond. In this weather, I hadn't found anything. I had resigned myself to examining nothing but dead invertebrates for the next couple weeks.
Your car won’t start. The peeling leather sticks to my wet jeans. I mourn the promise of heated seats, warm air, the tinny timbre of whatever thrifted CD you had thrown in that morning. I turn my head to look at you.
Running late to class, you had skipped the gold line and hopped in your car, shooting me a text to let me know you could drive me home from my lab. You ran out the door wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and no coat. The weather app on your phone remained unopened. Flinging open the car door, you had given the engine barely a minute to warm up before peeling out of your apartment’s lot. You parked in the garage without paying, despite the two tickets that remained sitting on your dashboard.
Your car won't start. You look down at your hands, fingers flexing against the steering wheel. You give the key another go. This attempt also fails. Snowflakes remain nestled in your hair, still frozen in the dead, numbing air of the car. My shoulders shake.
Your first alarm had never gone off. Neither had your second. Instead of your normal routine – wake up, get ready, eat something on your way out the door – you had juggled all three at once, shoving your feet into your sneakers as you shoved a granola bar in your mouth. Your texts were full of typos, a hazard of typing while trying to brush your teeth and make coffee. Your missing car keys added to the disaster. You had told me they weren't where you always put them. I have never seen you put your keys in the same spot twice.
Your car won’t start. You turn to look at me, eyes tired, brows heavy. We both glance at my wet pants, the useless key, and then each other. A sigh escapes us in unison. My hand lands on yours, prying off your fingers from where they clutch the wheel. A shudder runs through you as you clutch my cold fingers; still, you squeeze it once, twice, three times.
You had dropped me off late the night before. We wasted time in the parking lot; you stole my shake, I stole the aux. We talked about your mother and her research, my father and his travels, your roommate and his failed dates, my best friend’s knee problems. Gusts of wind whipped across the car. My phone buzzed with winter storm alerts. I asked about the warning lights flickering on your dashboard, and you shrugged, saying you would check them when you went home in two weeks. In the low light from the streetlamps, I could barely see you. Your hand rested on my thigh, thumb tracing circles onto my jeans. Hozier floated through the speakers. As I stepped out of the car, I reminded you to get gas.
Your car won’t start. I laugh. You smile.