I yanked the wheel right. Threw us into another drift—tighter, meaner. Rear end swung wide enough that the passenger side kissed within two feet of a parked Mercedes. Close enough to read the badge, count the spokes, and mentally apologize to German engineering for the disrespect.
She shrieked. Grabbed my arm. Squeezed hard enough to leave crescent moons in my skin.
"Two feet!" she gasped. "That was two fucking feet!"
"Three," I corrected calmly. "I measured with my superior spatial awareness."
"You did NOT measure—oh my GOD—"
I didn't push the banter into therapy hours.
Emotional vulnerability can wait until the adrenaline has finished its TED Talk. Women like Genevieve—the ones who've spent years being managed, curated, displayed on a shelf like fine china nobody actually uses—don't need a feelings inventory first.
They need someone to remind them their nervous system still works.
