Pit stop in Jersey. Cashier wobbles out, thumps in the pump.
The Jeep chassis ticks. Click-click-cli—
I blink, and you’ve restored us to manslaughter speed. Just two fingers on 2 o’clock for form. I interject Driver’s Ed. But you’re confident, older. Twenty-three?
The magnet in our compass: the Manhattan skyline. No real plan otherwise. But you know the real me: orphan, lost boy. Help me finish getting lost. Pull the tooth.
Your beard is sandpaper. Exclamation mark kisses—no words precede. I’m quiet, too. The right thoughts would crack my voice box.
Like, no one’ll find us. Or no one’s looking.
This story passed Round 2 100-word Microfiction 2024 for NYC Midnight.
Constraints: Genre: Action / Adventure // Action: refueling // Word: form
JL 
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