Charlie and Mat

A short story

Rain drops adhere to the windshield like sheets of construction paper. I tense over the steering wheel, clutching the stinging plastic. My body seems frozen at a forty-five-degree angle. The heater is broken. My muscles ache from the strain of fighting the freezing cold. I ride along in my thought-proof tomb. Mindlessly, I dwell on the exit numbers—thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five. Eight more and I will be inside my house, by a fire, eating dinner with my wife.