reconciliation

If you want it to happen - you'll have to carry the whole thing out carefully and quickly without me suspecting a thing.

Maybe you'll talk about the treacherous weather, describe a new recipe you want to try, gossip about your new coworker. I'll nod at all the right places, insert a few sympathetic sighs in between, flash you a reassuring smile before my eyes are back on the road.

Then you'll lock all of the doors, the automatic clicking sound drowned out by the singer on the radio. Remember to keep your face completely neutral, shaking of any body part minimal - any ripple I detect and your plan falls apart.

From your coat pocket you'll produce one of those handy Swiss army knives you swiped when you were a kid, the edge is still sharp. When I'm slowing down to make the next turn - the ball of my foot exerting just the right amount of pressure on the brake - you use all your strength to drive the blade into my right thigh.

I lose control of the car. It happens so quickly that I don't have time to feel anything, but I do turn to you for answers.

You'll quietly take my hands off the wheel. "I'm so sorry," you whisper, because if nothing else, you're polite. And then we'll sail - what a great feeling! - past the intersection, blinking traffic lights and faceless pedestrians, to a place where everything feels right again.