She lay with her head across his lap asleep in the front seat of the car. He liked her best when she was not asleep, but nearly so, because it was then that she would take his hand and hold it in earnest. When she was tired she let the loneliness show, and that’s when she needed him.

It’s strange country we’re driving through, he thought, although it wasn’t so strange at all. The land was flat and grassy with long roads more gray than black, and the thick, dark tar patches rattled the wheels in a random way that kept her from completely drifting off for more than a moment or two at time, but kept up a rhythm that would lull her back into sleep. As they hit the rough patches she would wake up and squeeze his hand like a ship tugging at its anchor. He was thankful for the strange country.

"Where are we?”
“Same place as before but a hundred miles further along.”
“I’ve slept for a long while, haven’t I?”
“I don’t mind.”
“Are you sleepy?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“I can drive.”
“Just lay down. We’ve a ways to go.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”

The grass rolled by the car as the sun dipped low. He swung the visor to the left to give his eyes a rest. As she settled back into his leg he watched her breathing become slow and even, and he knew that he was alone again for a while and was glad for it. I do like her very much, he thought, and knew it was the truth.

Rain began to hit the windshield in fat drops that splattered and clung to it, on and off for ten miles. They were going an even seventy now and making good time.

I left a few good ones behind, he thought, and maybe things would have been different if I’d never met her. She stirred only a little, rubbing her cheek against his thigh. She moved closer and began to shiver in the small way that sleeping women sometimes do. He turned on the heat and opened the vent, aiming it at her.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, and he squeezed her hand.

It was curious to him that she had stayed with him so long considering he was a great ruiner of things. There was this feeling that she was above him and beyond him; he couldn't hold on to her like he had the other women.

She drifted farther away, and he turned the blower down. The heater quieted, and he could hear the sound of the road against the wheels. The sun began to dip below the horizon and the car filled with nighttime silence.

It was another hour before he stopped at the filling station. The orange lights over the pumps filled the car. She woke, and used the bathroom while he filled the tank, the metal fitting where the hose met the pump cold as he hung it up.

"Want me to drive?"
"Suppose I could use a rest."

She drove out of the lot and he reclined the passenger seat. The glow of the dashboard lights was soft. He woke separately to a stop sign in the headlights, a long curving exit, a passing semi, and Jackson Browne on the radio, the time between each unknown. He woke up once more, for good as the tires rolled along gravel and she pulled the car into a rest stop. The clock read three in the morning.

"I'm tired again," She said.
"I can drive more."
"No, let's both sleep."

They cracked the windows and she lay in his lap while he reclined the driver's seat. The cool air touched the tip of his nose on the way through the car, and she put her hand on his knee, pulled herself tighter into him. She was warm. It was a couple of hours before the sun rose, and he woke with it. He could never sleep through sunrise.

"We better get moving."
"Just a little longer."
"You go on and sleep, I want to get on the roads while they're still mostly ours."
"You do love to drive."

It was true. He'd always loved driving, not fast, but long distance. It wasn't unlike the love some had for running, he figured, moving fast, alone, gave the time some purpose, and that was something he'd always wanted.

"How long until we're there?"
Not long enough, he thought.
"Not long, now."

She was leaving. He knew it. She couldn't be kept by anyone, let alone him. That's alright, he thought, so long as I can make her smile before she leaves.

"You really do love to drive. I could never do that. As soon as I'm in a car, I'm asleep."
"I've noticed."
"I'm sorry."
"I don't mind, really."
It was the truth.
"Tell me a story," she said.
"What kind?"
"Something funny. I want to laugh."
"I get tired, too, you know."
"I can drive."
"I get tired of it."
"I'll drive."
"I suppose it doesn't matter anymore."
"Don't say that."
"It doesn't."

Don't be a fool, he thought, don't ruin it now, just let it end, and don't be angry.
"I do like being with you, you know," she said.
"I know. But it's more than that for me, and I get tired of it."
"Tired of me?"
"No, tired of being the clown. I'm not as funny as you think I am."
"Stop, you're terribly funny."
"I'm tired of being funny."
"Then be whatever you want."
"Being what I want doesn't do any damn good."
"Does this?"
"No. Nothing does, because it doesn't matter anymore. It's all over in a few miles anyway."
"You couldn't just be happy?"
"Never."
"Never?"
"Especially not now, but yes, never."
"Not even at night?"
"Sometimes."
"Well, it's not all bad then?"
No, he thought, it is all bad.

"No, it's not all bad. I'm sorry. Forget I said anything."
"You sure you don't want me to drive?"
"Of course. Just forget it all. You might as well nap."
"We're nearly there. What's the difference?"
"Go ahead, you're tired."
She lay in his lap again, and drifted off once more, holding his hand like a ship on an anchor while his left hand held the steering wheel, loose.