Welcome to my writing world. Sit back with a hot drink and enjoy a few minutes somewhere other than where you are now.
⏱️ Read time: ~2 mins
🏷️ Genre: Contemporary Flash Fiction
💢 Content warning: None
This was originally written for the 8 Days of Ether challenge by Ether Books and it was available to read on their app. Sadly Ether is no more.
The M3
We’re driving down a slip road onto the M3, heading towards London. He accelerates hard to join the fast-moving conveyor belt of cars and lorries.
I don’t know where he’s taking me.
We slide into the near-side lane and I sense him relax once we’re in line, absorbed into the stream of vehicles. He stretches in his seat, making himself more comfortable for the ride. When he tilts his head left and right to ease away the tension, the tendons in his neck stand out. I want to touch them.
We sit in silence. He’s never been a big talker. Not like other men, who can’t help commenting on everyone else’s driving, all the while tutting and swearing. Or those who have to keep using their mobile phones, poking at the screen while veering dangerously, and talking endlessly to people who surely don’t much want to talk to them.
He watches the road carefully. His driving is hypnotic, self-assured, confident. His hands glide over the steering wheel as he overtakes a slower car. He rubs the stitching on the leather with his fingers. I imagine those fingers touching other places.
The early morning sun is still low, and his face is shadowed to perfection. His jawline belongs in a love story. I feel a momentary sadness, and then remind myself that I am the only one in his life, even if our relationship is not everything I would want it to be.
Up ahead the traffic is fleetingly heavier, and he taps on the brakes. He takes hold of the gearstick, and his knuckles flash white as he shifts down a gear. His firm grip is fleeting – he knows better than to rest his hand on the delicate mechanism. As always, his driving touches something inside me. I am open to his behest, a willing slave.
As the traffic thins out again, he takes his foot away from the brake and adjusts his right leg so he can return to the accelerator. His jeans stretch tight across his thighs, the quadriceps tensing up against the denim. When he puts his foot down, there is no hesitation. The pedal yields under him, and the increase in force travels through us both.
He feels the rise in power, hears the change in pitch, and at exactly the right moment, slips into the highest gear.
I let out a soft sigh, unheard.
With him, I am free; the smoothness of the road runs under us for miles.
But eventually, we must arrive at our destination.
He parks and gathers his things. Wallet, phone, keys. When he gets out and closes the door, he looks at me carefully. I am still breathless from the ride, my engine burning under the hood, my fan running, trying to cool the heat emanating from within. Then he presses the button on the remote, and walks away.
My four doors lock in perfect synchrony.
