It crossed the rearview, left to right. My hands came off the wheel. Slow. Like cold. Like nothing. They go down. And stay. It's working through the lot tonight. Row by row. Car by car. Two rows off, it bends to look. I am the third row back. Hold. Hands in my lap. Jaw shut. Hold. Sink in the seat. Stay stone. Hold. Nothing of me moves. Across the lot a dome light blooms. Somebody's nerve gave out. They sit there lit like noon. The bent shape stops its row. My hand remembers the horn. I teach it the lap again. The little light goes out. Not switched. My jaw takes all the weight. My eyes go down like hands. Hold. Hands in my lap. Jaw shut. Hold. Eyes down. Even the eyes. Hold. Nothing of me moves. One row. Then none. Then mine. A shape against the windshield dark. On the inside of the glass, my fog blooms once. Too big. Only the living fog the glass. I slow the bloom. I make it small. It reads the glass. It moves along. Hold. Hands. Jaw. Eyes. Hold. Even the fog. Even that. Hold. Nothing of me moves. The rows are only cars again. Their little light stays out for good. The mark I made dies off the glass. My hands stay where they learned.
