Driving on the freeway, everyone going exactly the same moderate speed, nobody passing, very little lane changing. I'm crying.
I look to my left and the driver of the car next to me is staring straight ahead, also crying.
I look to my right, same.
In this broken hour we function perfectly, like a precision instrument.
In this broken hour we function perfectly, like a precision instrument.
I arrive home and park against the curb on the busy, three lane road where my apartment sits. The spell is broken as I open my door into a bicyclist. The car door makes contact with his pedal.
He yells "Fuck you, asshole!" and flips me off.
I yell "I'm sorry!" because I am, incredibly, but I also want to yell "Thank you!"
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