Confessional

The conversation turns weird the second we start down the driveway.

“I know you like me,” he says.

“I’m sorry?” I look over at him, and he’s got this dumb dreamy look in his eyes, smiling and slouching down into the seat like a sack of potatoes.

“You like me,” he says, and then he gags a little.

“Do I?” I ask him, and he laughs.

“You do,” he says quietly, slouching further down and turning his head to stare out the window. “I know.” Then he coughs a couple times, leaning forward and then gagging a little again, sitting back in the seat with a smile on his face.

“Sit up, Roger.”

“I can do what I want,” he tells me. “It’s my car.”

I smile out at the road. “This is my car.”

“No, it’s mine.”

“This isn’t your car.”

He looks around and sighs. “Oh.”

We listen to the road noise for a bit, and then he puts a hand to the widow beside him. He taps on the glass with one of his fingers. “Where’s my car?” he wants to know.

“Back there.”

He looks over at me again and lets his hand slide down the window; I see him out of the corner of my eye. “I like you too,” he tells me quietly.

“What’s that?”

I look over, and he smiles, a dark smile. His eyes shine in the passing light of the streetlamps overhead, rushing past us in the night. “I remember everything that happened.”

“Roger, sit up.”

He slouches down further, pulling the seatbelt tight. “Do you ever think of me?” he asks, serious again.

I turn to look at the road, and he laughs. I look over at him again, and he’s straightened up. He’s still looking at me. “Do I ever think of you?”

"Don't be mean," he says, lowering his voice. "I hate when you talk to me like that."

I stare out at the road and sigh. "I don't want to talk about this, Roger."

"I do," he says.