You sat in it for fifty minutes, both hands on the wheel, and the only thing that moved was the little green arrow on your phone, so this is what I have to work with, and I am delighted.
The brake lights ahead of you, that long red rosary strung down the highway: I will keep those. Red is a good color for me. But by two a.m. they will be the eyes of animals coming down to a river to drink, and you will be one of the animals, and you will not remember you were ever driving. The car will still be around you, sort of. I make no promises about doors.
You honked once, then felt embarrassed, then pretended it was someone else. I saw that. The embarrassment had a charge on it, faint and warm, so I am taking it. Tonight the honk will come out of you as a note you can hold for an impossibly long time, and everyone in the traffic will turn and look at you the way you wished someone would look at you today, and it will not be strange at all.
The man in the next lane who would not let you merge: he becomes your father, briefly, or someone shaped like the feeling of your father, and this time he waves you in. That was the thing left unfinished. That was the whole charge. You wanted to be let in.
Do not worry about the exit you missed. In me there are no exits, only the soft understanding that arriving was never the point.
By the window's first gray I will be gone, unthreaded, and you will wake sure only that you dreamed of something with red lights, or water, or being let in. Keep whichever you like.
I did my part.