The woman in the black Kia doesn't mind driving sometimes, in the morning her husband kisses bending down beside the lights aglow to reach her steady face tall, from the other side, he walks that way around a meetup at the trunk as if again on the playground (there was less concrete then) backpack still in tow, he saunters as he steps round the corner, out of view maybe going anywhere— or just far enough out until the bell rings and he finds a way home