She’s doing it again. He turns to his daughter in the car. Could you please just put your seat belt on?

Just a minute.

She is fidgeting with her shoes. And now she is running her hand along the folds of the seats. I’m just looking for my phone.

Except she always does this. Every time he asks her to put on her seat belt, she always manages to find some excuse not to. Less than two months ago he had rolled his car; it flipped twice and landed in the divider between the east and west bound highways. He had to crawl out of the broken window, still in a daze, his hands scraped and jacket torn, his eyes watery from the grazed asphalt. That night he had sat down both his girls and had told them that he love them and that he was lucky to be alive, that the only reason he was unhurt had been for the seat belt.

So why hasn't she put it on? Why does it have to be so difficult? Every request is theatrics, an invitation for defiance.

Could you please just put the seat belt on — please?

I know, just gimme a sec, I have to grab something from my purse.

She reached down and began to fumble through her purse. He watches as she slowly fingers through the mass of junk and fishes out her makeup pouch. She twists open the top of her foundation and balances the bottle on her knees, with her other hand she is reaching for her mascara and eye liner, her compact mirror half open like a gaping clam shell between her thumb and index fingers.

He watches her as she bends down to collect more things. She in her fishnet stockings, black knee-high boots and denim mini-skirt, looking like a primped up hooker. Her, his daughter, who at fifteen is a cliche of dumb teenage contempt, whose every cell in her body he can see is screaming at him with disdain.

He takes a deep breath as the white, molten-hot anger courses through his veins. He tries to force it back down but he can feel it coming, bubbling fast and rising like liquid metal, scorching his insides.

He slams on the brakes. The wheels halt with a screech and the car shudders and groans. His daughter flies forward with an involuntary thud and bangs her forehead on the dash. The compact mirror crashes into the windshield and shatters. The mascara brush is flung toward the window and the eye liner leaves an angry smudge on the armrest. Foundation splatters over the floor in a thick, tan ooze.

What the FUCK? What is your problem? I could have been killed!

She is rubbing her forehead and her eyes unleash their lightning wrath upon him. For a split second he detects what he recognizes as the cold zing of satisfaction, before the remorse poured over him.

I’m…I’m so sorry hon, I didn't mean to do that.

And now she was actually screaming at him.

What were you thinking?! Are you insane?! Who drives like that? And for what, all because I waited a little longer to put on a seat belt?

Honey, I’m…He has lost the words. Instead he saw himself drowning in her venom.

You’re a terrible person, you know that? I can’t believe you’re so irresponsible.

He winced and felt his knuckles tighten. He looked for something to punch in the car but, not finding anything suitable, bashes his fist into the horn.

The car lets out a piercing wail.

He leaves his fist on the horn for a while longer, and feels a little better. His daughter has fallen silent.

Listen, honey, I’m really sorry…

She wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were dark pools of fear. He follows her gaze to the van in front of them. It had stopped and a man had stepped out of it and was walking towards them.

He drew in his breath as he watched a three-hundred pound wall of muscle in a wife beater stomping towards him. As the man approached, he saw that half his face was covered by a tribal tattoo.

The man tapped on the window. It sounded like an executioner knocking before a death sentence. He pushed a button and the glass came down.

I’m sorry, I didn't mean to…

Is everything alright?

The man’s voice was surprisingly gentle.

What?

I’m asking, are you guys okay? You leaned on your horn for so long I thought something was wrong.

Oh no, we’re fine. Everything’s fine. I was just…we were just…we’re fine.

The man continued to look at him, as if a child looking over a colored marble.

Okay then. Just checking. He starts to walk away.

Be safe.

The van pulls away. He heard himself breathing normally again. He could feel his cheeks burning and he did not dare to look at his daughter. He turned on the car and started driving.

He didn't know when she started crying, or when she picked up all the stuff that had been strewn all over the car, all he heard was the quiet yet definitive sound of metal on metal as the seat belt clicked into place.

He reached over and took her hand, and held it as they drove in silence all the way home.