It’s a couple of seconds past 9:32. Hovering in wait, rough denim hangs off my legs and rests against a plastic chair. These minutes of delay are laced with unnecessary intensity—an intensity that compels me to crinkle the mangled envelope in my hand. Anxious energy which demands I check inside this envelope, to ensure no vital pages of my permit have been misplaced. I release my weight into the chair, a play to disarm this anxiety.

          The clock on the microwave now reads 9:35. A black and yellow car drives into view and idles by the curb. Five minutes of lateness, though typically inconsequential, marks itself as a forecast. A man opens the driver-side and walks around to the passenger side, his steps shallow and incommensurately urgent. I awkwardly hinge to look through the rolled-down window, attempting to mask my confusion as he skillfully dodges eye contact.

          “I’m here for Carla,” he says, in a questioning tone.

          “Yep, that’s me,” I respond, in the sort of cadence triggered by nervousness and my subconscious need to appear non-threatening.

          I can now feel his neutral stare as it wears holes into my shiny forehead. He takes a loud, drawn-out sip of a heavily condensating iced coffee from Dunkin Donuts. I take another mental note – a coffee run is one possible explanation for his late arrival.

          Answering my unspoken thoughts, he aims for the apology equivalent of forehead eye contact, “There was lots of traffic on my way here, you know I live pretty far away.”

          Though I have no idea how far or close he lives, I nod with a sympathetic smile. This nameless man then haphazardly staples a yellow slip to my permit. My eyes meet the envelope – its battered protector – which has fallen onto the carpeted floor of the car and into insignificance.

          “So can you drive?” he questions, voice tinged with annoyance.

          I answer, with neutrality, “I’m still very new to it.”

          “The gas is on the right and the brake is on the left,” he instructs with automation.

          Releasing the gas, my hesitant hands turn the wheel, the car slowly peeling away from the curb. Fear echoes through the car and a cushion of apprehensive air invisibly suspends my head, only inches from the headrest. Silence thickens and toils, falling heavy on my shoulders as we reach a stop sign. I glance over for instructions.

          “Right,” he says definitively, beginning to fish in his pocket for his phone.

          The incessant ticking of my signal relieves the weight of silence as I turn onto Robertson. Eyeing my absent teacher again – a plea for engagement – I find familiarity on his phone screen. He is on level 17 of Matchington Mansion. The game’s repetitive sound effects stand in my mind’s doorway, and occasionally, the voice of a cartoon woman enters brazenly. She congratulates him for his matching expertise, paying no mind to me, her unwelcoming host. I am alone and unchecked and sitting beside a man of great unearned confidence. No eyes, just instinct, he will save us both from a crash. The emergency brake on the passenger side is my life's only guard.

          “So how has your summer been?” he flatly asks, eyes still focused intently on matching.

          Knotted tension has welled in my throat. I swallow loudly, “It’s been ok. Mostly, I’ve been rehabbing an injury. How about you?”

          His eyes shift from the screen to focus acutely on my oiled cheek. This out-of-place implication of interest sharpens my self-awareness. As a yellow light turns red, I slow prematurely to a stop, landing a couple of feet shy of the line.

          “You know, I’ve broken seven bones. My arm three times, two ribs, and both legs. I never went to physical therapy. My arm is just,” he pauses, wading in shallow waters of awkwardness and suspense, as if deciding whether to say something he should not, “messed up.”

          There is little coherence in his mannerisms and figures of speech beyond his habit of prefacing or closing a statement with “you know.” Momentarily frozen in the wake of this unexpected sharing, I begrudgingly attend. As my body becomes more tightly tethered to the car, the smoggy air outside threatens to liberate my mind and whisk it away from this stifling container.

          His eyes still lingering in the space below mine, I force a delayed response, “That’s terrible, how did you break them?”

          Hovering in the air for a moment, my voice soon begins its descent to rest at twelve o'clock on the steering wheel. I tap a finger on peeling black leather. A cycle of replay begins. Distorted by the drone of traffic, my comment quietly assumes a regretful insincerity.

          “Mostly car accidents,” he responds, lacking any reassuring tone of humor or irony, “I think I’ve been in like 7 car accidents.”

          Hands gripping the wheel with growing intensity and eyes glued to the road, fully dissolved of their indifference, I await a casual remark. Tension remains piercingly palpable.

          “Take this on-ramp that’s coming up,” he gestures toward the 405.

          “Alright,” I respond firmly, attempting to access some well of calm within.

          I want to say no. But the on-ramp is fast approaching, and I don’t presently possess the boldness to color his demand as a question. I begin to accelerate in speed. The thin red line on the dashboard falters between 45 and 50 mph.

          “Faster,” he loosely commands, irritation thinly gilded by nonchalance.

          I press lightly on the gas as the line bumps against 60. I am powerfully and completely out of control, fear mingling with freedom and coursing through my being. Speed loses sentiment as the world shifts into uniform motion. I am trapped between two worlds. One is light and devoid of consequence. The other is heavily steeped in danger and apprehension. Mortality is a fleeting concept, shifting and morphing as these two voids fracture.

          Brake lights! I abruptly apply pressure and stop behind a line of cars. The empty exhilaration melts away, fully consumed by the mundanity of self-possession.

          “Make a match of three by swapping pillows of the same color,” the Matchington Mansion woman interjects.

          I think I’m learning how to drive.