The rough driving wakes me up. Sometimes I think my father intentionally aims for every pothole, dip, and raised bump when he’s driving. He calls it showing off his luxury car’s smooth suspension. The only thing suspended here is his disbelief. Another bump. “See! I didn’t even feel that! If I hadn’t been looking for it, I’d never have known it was there.”
My mother glares at him from the front passenger seat. She begins a well memorized tirade against him, his car, and his refusal to accept things are not as perfect as he wishes them to be. The two snipe at each other in the usual way that reminds me why I think marriage is overrated.
4,074 words.