Exhaust and carburetor fumes hung on his clothes like a poison aura.

“Where did he go?”

She looks up, and tells him,

“He went back home to dance with his demons and his dying dad.”

“Oh.”

Then the smell of the Fast Orange cleaning his hands in sink.

He had been cutting trees to keep her warm.

Later that night, a log rolled off the fire,

Leaving a path of hot stars, like a angry swarm of bees, that she could not pick up with her hands.

She felt foolish for not paying better attention. 

Tomorrow the sun will be out, and she will enjoy driving.

The cacophony of open window spring music, from the cars all around.

She will open her fingers and let the air move through them.