White Lines

He extends a hand as she boards the ambulance.Bandaged hands hover above her knees like day-old helium balloons. He shifts to fifth along the only road in and out of the town.

His eyes flicker in the rear-view mirror.
“Don’t worry love, if I had a dollar for every time
someone put their hands through a glass window I’d
be driving a golf buggy in Hawaii”.

She smiles, his eyebrows crease in the side-view mirror.

White lines.

He arches his left arm towards his neck exposing a scar
on his forearm under the dashboard lights; ‘Danni’, it reads.

White lines.