11.3

His face was illuminated in an awkward rectangle by the rear-view mirror. In the low light, all his features, manly, aquiline, imperial or otherwise, were lost to sight. All she could see was the glassy cornea of his eye, which darted back and forth madly. He didn't know she was awake. The last thing they had said to each other was a comment on how many billboards there were, to which she inevitably replied with her tired story about potential legislative restrictions drowned in physical reminders of the inadequacies of the federal system. He let the story fade from the car and sink into the highway behind them.
He thought she was asleep, she supposed. By all accounts, she should have been, but she was enthralled by the mystery revealed to her by her failing sight. As the night faded around the tiny Acura (chipped and fading), she could see more and more of a man she had never met, but with whom she had always been in love. He was driving her in her car to her home through her territory, and he knew exactly what to do. Every movement he made was precise and quiet.
She couldn't see the scruffy beard or the oversize ears or the gangly arms or the overbite or the receding hairline. He was perfection in her mind, hearing even her fears about becoming her mother or losing the respect of her future and entirely speculative child. He had power and kindness. He had warmth and shelter. Her awareness of him grew to include the car that kept her safe and the future she was living with him and everything she wanted from him until, at two thirty in the morning, he carried her to the door and kissed her awake and whispered something just for her which we aren't allowed to hear.