the ceiling of your car is a uniform blue-grey. i stare at it until my eyes hurt. try my best not to focus on your hands, but they’re rough and uncomfortably cold on my bare skin. tune out the world with the ceiling texture that’s starting to resemble television static. i’m an expert at this.

it’s nearly midnight when you drive me home. you have one hand on the wheel, the other on my knee. we cruise down a deserted city street. streetlights whiz past my window, each one illuminating the wet streaks running down your cheeks. i pretend not to notice. 

when the car slows to a stop as it approaches my house, i put my hand on the passenger side door handle. ‘wait.’ 

i look at you in the yellow tinted glow of the overhead light post. watch as you reach under your shirt and pull over your head a necklace. you form a fist around it and outstretch your hand towards me. ‘here. take it.’ i look down and let you drop the heavy chain into my open palm. i clench my fingers around the cold metal and open my door. ‘goodnight.’

i get out of car and close the door. ‘bye,’ i say through the rolled down window. i walk up the driveway of my house and look at the necklace. a black chain with a dense cross pendant at the end.

i’m an atheist.