You don’t mention to your partner how much you appreciate that particular gesture, realizing only now, in its ordinary occurrence, that you’ve truly missed it. But as he turns around and shifts the car from reverse, his warm palm rests gently on the back of your neck. Maybe he enjoys that intimate connection, knowing that you belong to each other.
You express your dream of owning a restored vintage Volkswagen Beetle someday. You reminisce about the green bug your uncle drove in the ’70s, balancing on its running boards as he rolled it down your grandparents’ driveway in Queens, arm around your waist. You felt like the coolest four-year-old. Your partner chuckles, promising to buy you one when the kids are older, envisioning you cruising around like the spirited woman he believes you’ll become. He squeezes your neck in a way that conveys all the unspoken words of love you both yearn to hear repeatedly, in tender moments like this.
You think back to all the cars you’ve shared. There was the forest-green Subaru hatchback with tan leather seats that he inherited during your college years. That very car picked you up when you were still just friends, and you fell in love with him in that front seat, long before your lips ever met. You remember the intoxicating feeling swirling in your stomach and chest, an unfamiliar thrill that you were yet to comprehend fully.
You recall when the transmission finally failed during his trip to college just before senior year, somewhere near Roscoe, New York. He called you from a gas station where he had been towed, and though you had only been dating for a few months, it felt so right to be the first person he reached out to.
There were countless drives between your homes during school breaks. You drove your little silver Subaru Justy, navigating the winding roads of Connecticut, passing graveyards from the Revolutionary War era. It was a bittersweet reminder of mortality and gratitude as you shifted gears to the rhythm of the radio, feeling young and alive.
You think of those summer nights spent driving with him, the freedom of being together without a care for where you were headed. His hand rested on your thigh, the cool air brushing against your skin, bringing memories of sweet, stolen moments.
You remember parking in quiet spots near your house, in cul-de-sacs or along deserted streets, where the darkness wrapped around you as the headlights flicked off. The soft glow of the radio and the gentle hum of the engine cooling were the backdrop to your tender exchanges.
Now, however, you often find it difficult to reflect on those beautiful memories during your car rides together. Life has shifted. You’re often caught up in the chaos of misdirected GPS signals, disputes over timing, and the needs of children in the backseat. You try not to dwell on the fact that they’ll soon be behind the wheel themselves.
Yet, in fleeting moments, you reach over to touch his thigh while he drives, fingers tracing the inseam of his jeans. He remembers too. He takes your hand in his, steadying the wheel with the other, a gesture of love and security. He kisses your hand and returns it, enveloping it in the warmth of his palm. You remind him he needs both hands to drive, but he insists, “No. I don’t.”
This is what you’ve always desired—to feel that you belong to each other, to navigate through life’s long, winding journey together.
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