The Geographer's Library

The power thereof is perfect.
The night ended, for better or worse, kissless in my car. Hannah, her
patchy veneer of calm fraying at points over her unease, said that we
would see each other tomorrow, though not where, when, or how. I
tried a couple of times on the drive home to ask about the bearded man at the
bar, but she stuck to her claim that he resembled her father, and once her
voice began to rise and tighten with irritation, I backed off. This was obviously
untrue, but she was even more obviously the most attractive woman
who had ever been in my car. As I said before, I didn’t want to press what
seemed at the time—wrongly, as it turned out—a minor point.
As she left the car, she thanked me for dinner and a lovely evening and ran
her smooth hand down the side of my face and neck, stopping just inside my
shirt collar. I leaned across and reached for her, but unfortunately I had forgotten
to put the car in park, and it started to inch forward. Suave, I know,
ending an evening with a car accident. I pulled the emergency brake, and
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