Stopped at a red light, a crumbling overpass to our left. I forgot my jacket, so I’ve pulled my sleeves down and bunched them in my fists. Arms crossed while the car warms up. I watch his fingers wring the steering wheel; he’s gone heavy again.

His profile’s tinted with traffic light. I study him, probably so he’ll look at me, too, but he doesn’t.

I unclench my fists and offer an open palm to his end of the bench seat. Fingers splayed. Without glancing he puts his hand in mine. A couple sincere up-and-down movements of his thumb. The car feels warmer.

I watch the opposing traffic light turn yellow and ours subsequently green. Then his hand is back on the wheel, and we’re rolling towards the Marigny.

“I drive with that hand,” he says. Then he tosses me a peripheral wink.

“Yeah?” I smile.

“Yeah.”

“I drive with my other hand,” I say. “Always have.” I realize that I’ve left my empty palm open on the bench seat. I clasp my hands together and shove them between my knees. His profile: unchanged.

I want to indulge in the tragedy of a moment left at the stoplight by the overpass. I really do want to. He tweaks a smile at me, then goes back to rest position. I decide to watch the road.

Emma Grimsley can be reached at [email protected]