Five Minute Fiction Week 112

Week 112 Finalist

I climbed into the back seat beside the blanket and pillows, stacked up high enough to reach the car ceiling. The whole floor was packed with Adam’s things as well, as was the  passenger seat and the trunk.

Four years of memories, compressed into a Honda ambling on the side of the road.

Adam left the air conditioner on in the car, coolant combating the August heat. It was something I used to yell at him for. One of the many stupid, useless reasons why I was in that back seat, hiding, hoping he didn’t see me.

I told him to be out of the apartment by five – before I got home from work. I said I didn’t want to see his face again.

I didn’t.

But telling myself that didn’t make me get out of the car – the one we drove up toMontrealon a weekend whim. The car that we catapulted toward in sheets of rain, laughing our heads off, clothes soaked through. In that back seat, we once read each other stories when the power went out in our building, keeping each other warm as the snow fell softly outside.

I pushed the door open, saying goodbye to Adam’s scent on his pillowcase. He didn’t see me when he came out of the lobby, the last box in his hands.

The tail lights behind that back seat were all I saw through blurred tears when he rounded the corner and drove away.

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