I don’t drive stick shift well. Long ago, late one Sunday night in Spain, my boyfriend and I had to get back to Madrid.
“Can you drive? I have this terrible migraine….”
“Sure, sure, not a problem,” I said but I thought, “God help me! Not a problem for me, but this could be a big problem for the other drivers.”
We got in the car and my boyfriend put his hand on my arm, rested his head back on the headrest, and sighed, “You don’t know how grateful I am that you are driving.” Then he closed his eyes, which reassured me a bit. At least he wouldn’t be watching me drive.
I managed to make my way to the outskirts of the city, then relaxed as I got on the highway. Highways were easier. I watched the outline of the mountains around Madrid get bigger, and I kept tabs on the moon as she escorted us home.
I turned to look at my boyfriend, his body relaxed in the seat, his light snoring keeping me calm, and I smiled, thinking, “I could marry this guy.” And I did.
“Can you drive? I have this terrible migraine….”
“Sure, sure, not a problem,” I said but I thought, “God help me! Not a problem for me, but this could be a big problem for the other drivers.”
We got in the car and my boyfriend put his hand on my arm, rested his head back on the headrest, and sighed, “You don’t know how grateful I am that you are driving.” Then he closed his eyes, which reassured me a bit. At least he wouldn’t be watching me drive.
I managed to make my way to the outskirts of the city, then relaxed as I got on the highway. Highways were easier. I watched the outline of the mountains around Madrid get bigger, and I kept tabs on the moon as she escorted us home.
I turned to look at my boyfriend, his body relaxed in the seat, his light snoring keeping me calm, and I smiled, thinking, “I could marry this guy.” And I did.
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