On the way home I noticed you kept checking your watch and calling me sir. You slowed down at greens when you thought they'd turn yellow and stopped when the yellows had yet to turn red. You had your hands at ten and two, which I was always taught but had never actually seen. I couldn't seem to hear the outside world. It was you, and it was me.
At my corner I said thank you, started to get out but something stopped me, a breath, by you, an inhalation just before a thought. I asked you what and saw your knuckles turn, I heard leather rubbing off into your palms at ten and two. I asked again. You looked at me. A year of unsaid sayings.
Your grip was lost, your gaze went to the road ahead of you, whoever you were headed next. And I got out, not knowing if I should, but knowing that I had to. I closed the door the way my mother always asked me to, I didn't slam. And the thing about your hands placed where they're supposed to be, there's enough room for your head to fall down slowly right between them.
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