I laugh at everything. A man says a joke regarding some game I’ve cheered but never played for, and I choke up a giggle from the stump of my stomach. He smiles, because he knows what cute and soprano implies and suddenly, I notice the glass encasement surrounding me. I am a specimen, smirking when the space allows for it, and he is too humane to tap on the glass. He brings his shaky hands close enough.
I laugh because I am always nervous and I am always swallowing baby’s-breaths that bend me into a smile, or a devotion. With each exhale, I deflate like some latex balloon and fold myself along familiar creases into any crevasse he’s still got room for. He tucks me into his glovebox. He uses my laughter as the soundtrack for a long road trip- one where your mind wanders to taller shadows and their question mark claws. He hums along but cannot picture my face. He reaches out to touch the reflective windshield and suddenly sees