I remember the episode vividly—the way I automatically recoiled, not from the fact that Ruth had recoiled, but from something inside me rebelling. I was close enough to feel her warmth, and then, from out of nowhere, confusion and jarring shock had come over me. I hadn't wanted it to happen, and yet there it was: my body recoiling from Ruth, as if trying to escape the shock of a sudden proximity.
I rose slowly from the seat, my heart pounding against my ribcage, and stepped away from her. No angry shove or rough push—just a silent, mechanical step as I stepped over to the opposite side of our old sedan. I shoved the door open with force, making it bang shut behind me. Without pausing to wonder what I was doing, I climbed into the driving seat, put in the key, and joined the traffic bound for the Brera at night.
