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.