THE FIRST HOUR of the trip we spend in complete silence. It leaves me hyper aware of everything in the small space of the vehicle. Vincent's cologne, a sporty sent that differs from the one he wore the other day. Pleasant, but not my favorite. The way he keeps his legs crossed at his ankles so his papers are level. His steadfast attention to the stack laid out on his thighs.
Hell, the way his thigh muscles contract as we go over a bump in the road and he's forced to flex to keep the papers steady. The way his eyes narrow, creating small crow's feet at the corners when he spots an error in the reports before circling it with his bright red pen and leaving remarks in the margins. You can learn lots about a person from the corners of their eyes as you travel on the highway at seventy miles
