I’m a little bit done with you. The last twenty miles of tires scraped my bones raw, the four hundred before that burned my liver to a crisp. When we pull over, I’m getting out of the car, knees buckling with the weight of sitting for long enough to make it further than we should have gone. I’ll tug on my wrinkled shirt; over the hood I’ll hear your coat catch in the seat belt and your shoes scrape as you hoist your bag to your shoulder. There will be a moment when my hand lies flat on the dirt of the door before I raise my elbow, slam the door. That will be the last moment, and you won’t see it; you’ll notice the slam in a few hours when it echoes in your brain, when you realize the silence of the room is real. By then, maybe I’ll be in a diner, yesterday’s newspaper steamed by toast and coffee.