“Will you blame me if you get cancer?” he asked when the lights turned red and everything else went still.
You caught your breath and turned your eyes to the water-inflated glove you had both decided to put eyes on. (It had been the result of his leisure at the hospital). He had been squishing its third appendage in gigil and had warned you that he might just do that to the kid you have yet to have (nor to conceive). You fiddled with the other limbs of Squilliam (that was what you had decided to call the glove), your stare obviously elusive. You said, “No.” In your periphery, you sensed him release a breath you just realized he had been holding. “It’s part of life.”
The lights turned green. He drove forward.
(writing practice inspired by unphotographable.com)