taxis

taxis

On the way to work, I look over at you, watch you readjust your skirt, because this is how I always imagine you, clothes and eyes disheveled, that or bound beneath my desk with velvet ropes, waiting for me upon a red satin pillow-mattress, but just try to tell me that THAT’S NOT ANOTHER STORY (though, really, it would only be for a day, and it’s a large office, hidden away from anyone else, and I keep the lights low and a bottle of Metaxa in my file drawer, and I would likely join you down there for most of the morning and otherwise be on conference calls in the afternoon daring you to throw my concentration), and say, ‘Look, by slowing me down, you're only slowing down the entire economy. You're really only hurting yourself.’

But at that moment, an oncoming car swerves into my lane, and then another, and I’m forced onto the shoulder, all because a dog is trotting along the side of the road, and I look up towards the heavens questioningly, but Darwin coyly replies, ‘NO COMMENT,” and I turn to you and say, “People would rather crash into perfect strangers than run over a feral animal with an 8-year life span.” But you’re not there to laugh at my sage, silly wisdom. You always disappear when things get too real.

And none of us actually think to stop our automobiles, because while we don’t mind being late, we would rather crash into perfectly good strangers than go slow. And there you are again, smiling, and buttoning up your blouse, because now I’ve reintroduced the sublime into my daily commute.