Free Fanfare by Renee Ahdieh

normality of the man sitting next to me.
    “Well, in case I forget to tell you later, it’s still shitty that I had to come and get my own iPod.”
    “I’ll try to make it up to you. Shall we?” He gazed pointedly at the wheel with a smile.
    I backed out of the spot and peeled onto Peachtree Street. We drove in silence for a few minutes until we reached the freeway.
    “Holy shit!” he sputtered as I merged into traffic. “You drive like an absolute lunatic!” He grasped the handle above the window so tightly his knuckles turned white.
    I snorted blithely. “Relax, Grandpa. This is Atlanta; you won’t get anywhere if you don’t make a break for it. You haven’t even seen crazy yet . . . ride with my cousin in San Juan and allow her to redefine the term ‘lunatic’ for you. You’ll never complain about me again.”
    “Do all Puerto Ricans drive like they have nothing to live for?” he teased.
    “That’s the problem with you prudish Brits. You think that anyone figuratively coloring outside the lines must mean they have some dark desire to inflict harm. Don’t read into mundane things like driving, Lord Tennyson. I haven’t killed anyone yet, and I don’t necessarily break rules . . . I just like to bend them.”
    He laughed loudly as he released the handle. “All right, Chip. I’ll attempt to overlook your psychotic driving. You’ll have to answer some questions to distract me from pondering the meaning of my life as it flashes before my eyes.”
    “You know, my friend Gita theorizes that people drive the way they live,” I mused in an attempt to stop him from asking me questions.
    “If that’s the case, you live life recklessly and entirely too fast.” He chuckled to himself.
    “Well, that theory is incredibly flawed if that’s the case. I could probably stand to live life a bit more recklessly. I’m the furthest thing from being a risk taker,” I admitted.
    “All evidence to the contrary . . . maybe the way you drive is more of an outlet for the way you live—like a chance to exist on the edge for just a moment.”
    “Hah! How do you drive?”
    “Atrociously! I’m extremely cautious, and I drive very slowly It’s probably because I have very little experience with it. I keep feeling like I’m going to kill someone every time I get behind the wheel. Learning to drive a car in L.A. was probably a piss-poor idea . . . I never actually had to drive in London.”
    “I’ll bet all those Beverly Hills speed demons love having to drive behind you,” I joked.
    “Honestly, that’s one of the reasons I’m so nervous when I drive. Yanks are unbelievably impatient. It’s effing hilarious to watch the guy behind me go bat shit because I didn’t gun the engine so he could make the light. I can see him shouting about my mum like his life depends on it.” He laughed again, and I realized how much I liked to hear him enjoying himself.
    Ugh. Further proof I was in over my head.
    “I’ve noticed that you like being an observer,” I said with a half-smile.
    He raised his left eyebrow in my direction. “I’ve noticed that you like avoiding questions.”
    “See, now I just want to switch on the radio. I hate it when you’re right.”
    He chuckled good-naturedly. “I’m a very patient man when I choose to be. You can switch on the radio if you’d like.”
    Not wanting to look a gift-horse in the mouth, I flipped stations until I found something I recognized that didn’t antagonize my awkwardness. I placed a mental ban on anything sappy or interlaced with sentiments of love.
    Radiohead. Perfectly innocuous.
    As Planet Telex blared from the speakers, a comfortable silence developed between us. I peered at him from behind my sunglasses and realized we both mouthed the words to the song in perfect synchronization. He glanced in my direction, and when he noted the same thing, we smiled at each other again. I saw his left hand turn over in his lap and his fingers curl slowly into his palm. It