We drove in silence, of course. I was anxious to see the city skyline, to feel a return to my normal life, my home. He seemed content listening to classic rock and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. I rolled my eyes whenever he started to hum or sing along -- he could never seem to find the right key -- but the closer we got to the city, the less angry I felt. By the time the sun was setting over the horizon on our left and "Angie" came on the radio, I was singing along with his warbling voice. He smiled and reached over to take my hand. It wasn't exactly an apology, and we hadn't resolved anything, but we both felt better. Isn't that what mattered?
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