Passenger Seat

My mate got into my car last week. He said, "Mate, who's five foot three?"

It was a Tuesday. Rain. We were going to a gig. Sam yanked the passenger door open, folded himself in like origami, and immediately smacked his knees against the dashboard.

"What the—" He wriggled. His chin was practically on his chest. "How is this seat so far forward?"

I looked at it. I hadn't noticed.

Her name was Keira. She was five foot three, and every journey, she'd shuffle the seat forward, and I'd roll my eyes. "It's like driving with a toddler," I'd say. She'd flick my ear. We drove to Cornwall like that. Brighton. Her mum's house. The long, slow roads home after fights. The seat never moved.

We broke up in February. Nine months ago.

"Mate," Sam said, gently, "it's been nine months."

I stared at the seat. At the little worn patch on the leather where her knee used to rest. At a single hair tie wedged near the handbrake, black, a bit stretched, forgotten.

I'd never touched it. Not once. Not even to vacuum.

I'd been driving around with an empty space shaped exactly like her.

I reached over and pulled the lever.

The seat slid back with a soft, mechanical sigh. Sam stretched his legs, grinning.

"That's better."

It was.

And it was the loneliest sound I've ever heard.