Chris walks out of the convenience store toward the truck with a coffee in each hand. I’m tired (hungover, if you must know), but there’s something about his walk, his denim-clad thighs, his steel-toed boots that wakes me right up.
It’s just easier to carpool to the job site, I’d told him, and he’d agreed.
I push the passenger door open from the inside, and he steps up and in, a freshly showered, woodsy smell wafting in with him. Goddamn.
“Morning,” he says, as our fingers touch briefly around my cup.
We sit, sipping. The air between us hums.
“Morning.”
Cynthia Hamill 