The Car

You’re in the back seat. Shoes off. Legs across his lap.

Driver doesn’t ask questions.
He knows the protocol: wherever they’re going, it’s better than where they were.

“Where to?” he asks.

Michael looks at you.
You stretch like a cat in moonlight, roll your neck, and say, “Somewhere with no flash photography and real food.”

Michael nods to the driver. “Home. Chef’s probably bored anyway.”