I remember one of the lights in the store being broken. We were stopped for gas, I in the passenger seat and Shavi outside in the hiemal air. If the two of us had ever really spoken before, I could not recall it. I was wrapping myself in the silence, keeping my eyes focused on the price that was rising on the pump.
I was certain he was about to kill me. There was no knife, no gun, no overheard conversation, just a feeling that I was about to die. I felt no fear, no anger, just resignation. All I could do was wait in the drab fabric seats for his return and my death.
I jumped when he tapped the window. His knuckles left smudgy prints on the glass. I tried to wipe them off but they stayed, tarnished tracks that impeded my vision. Not that a gas station provides much of a view. Of course I realize now that one can’t clean finger marks from the opposite side of the window, but at the time I took it as a sign.
The whole van sank as he got in. The numbers still flashed on the pump. $41.68. I couldn’t help but stare at the unfamiliar man next to me. He was unblinking, motionless, watching the road though the vehicle stood still. Why didn’t he just get it over with? I thought, Why did he prolong the inevitable? I became more anxious with every second that passed. My life was wasting away in awkward silence and no one, not a single soul outside the van, knew what I was going through. No one came to save me.
“What do you say then?” My thoughts were interrupted, “A little music?” It was the first time either of us had spoken since I got in the car almost an hour earlier. I said nothing so he took the dead air as affirmation. I watched the spot on the window while he started the ignition and fiddled with the dials on the radio. A woman’s voice filled the space between us.
“In other news today, a mine has collapsed in West Virginia leaving workers trapped with no way of contacting outside services. It is believed that up to 15 men are currently unaccounted for. Authorities are not releasing an estimated time for when any survivors may be rescued. Families are forced to wait for news on whether or not their loved ones are still in the mine. We hear one wife’s story now...”
We never left the gas station. From the outside all you could have seen were two silhouettes frozen in place through the dirty glass, each staring at the windshield. Neither of us said a word, too immersed in the tragedy of the story. Inside the store, another light flickered off.
“Next we have some light jazz!” Her voice was chipper. The car started with the music, death forgotten by the radio woman. As headed out toward the highway, I watched the light, afraid that the death I had waited for had been transferred to them. Shavi’s knuckles – those stupid, smudgy knuckles – were white with the force with which he gripped the steering wheel. I wondered if he knew that their deaths had been our fault