I’m looking at Steve as if I am seeing him for the first time. I see the grey hair at his temple and the curve inside his ear. I see the mole that he thinks is hidden under his beard, but the truth is, his beard is patchy and not well-kept. He pretends to take care of his body, but I know better. I know how much time he spends in the bathroom and how much product he uses daily. It is not as much as he wants to make other people believe. I was once in love with Steve. I loved his hands. They are clutching the steering wheel tightly. The skin on his hands and fingers is dry, and his nails need to be clipped. I want to look the other way, but I can’t. I have never seen Steve the way I am seeing him now. He is biting his lower lip, and I wonder how much longer he can do this without drawing blood. His nostrils flare a bit on every exhale, and his eyes look empty. Steve had brown eyes. A bit dull, nothing special. Nothing stands out about Steve. And yet, I once fell in love with him. I rub my sweaty palms back and forth over my thighs, finally able to look out of the window. We are in a car, driving north. The streets are packed; it seems everyone is driving up north. And we are too. Steve knows our route, he studied it, internalised it. I am just sitting here, thinking. I am thinking about Steve and our destination. I’m thinking about where we are going and where we are coming from.